


Training Buddies

by Fyre



Category: Ant-Man (2015), Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War speculation, Friendship, Male Friendship, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Room, Sleeper Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the random guy in the street isn't out to get you. And sometimes, he might need your help in ways you never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The door was closing when Matt heard the heavy tread in the rain-battered street outside.

He turned his head, frowning. 

He hadn’t been followed, of that much he was certain, but the lights in the gym were off, and the doors were about to be locked up. There was no reason for anyone to come near a dark, mostly-empty building at night.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Old Howie was the one who’d let him in tonight. “The gym’s closed. Opening hour is six am.”

“I need to use the facilities.”

The hair on the back of Matt’s neck rose. There was a hint of an accent in those words, something definitely not America. A hint of Russian. The last thing he needed was for Howie to get in any trouble facing one of Matt’s choice enemies.

“It’s okay, Howie,” he called towards the doors. “Leave the keys. I’ll lock up when he’s done.”

Anyone else, and Howie would have protested, but they’d known one another a hell of a long time. He opened the door a little wider, bringing in a waft of the damp night air, and something else: stale sweat and the rank, unmissable reek of someone who had been sleeping somewhere that definitely didn’t have a roof.

On one hand, could be a harmless hobo who just wanted somewhere dry and warm to hide out. On the other, it wasn’t unheard of for people from the streets to get desperate and accept a payment for all kinds of unsavoury jobs.

Matt feigned ignorance, setting aside his glasses. He dug his tape out from his bag, and set to work wrapping his hands. If it did turn out to be the latter, at least this time he wouldn’t be caught by surprise and crack open his knuckles on some asshole’s face again.

The stranger hadn’t come further than the doors. He was standing there, gently stinking, and motionless. Definitely not a civilian. There was something military about the absolute silence and stillness. The only thing out of place was a metallic whirring, barely even audible, muffled by dense material. Possibly leather? Something inside a coat maybe?

“The showers are second door on the left if you want to use them,” he said conversationally.

No response. No movement.

It was too controlled to be anything but a soldier. 

Matt flexed his fists, then approached the punching bag. “Toilets are third left,” he added, as if it was going to make a damned bit of difference. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then started his usual warm up routine.

Still, the man didn’t move.

Maybe he was even waiting until his target had exhausted himself. 

He waited, all through the warm up, but nothing. Not until he started on the bag in earnest.

“You need someone to block that.”

The stranger’s voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t been talking much lately. 

Matt hesitated. “You box?”

“I…used to. A long time ago.”

Matt braced his hand against the bag, turning his face in the direction of the stranger. “I hear it’s like riding a bike. You want to join me?”

Another silence.

“I think so.”

Matt managed a quick smile. “You might want to jump in the showers first. There’s always some spare kit for newbies in the last locker on the right in the shower room.”

“Kit. Yeah. I need kit.” He shifted on his feet. Boots. Heavy ones. Not as poor and homeless as he smelled, then. “Second door on the left?”

“Hey, take your time,” Matt turned back to the sack. “I’ll be here.”

When the man returned, thankfully smelling fresher, he said little. The whirring sound was louder, and Matt couldn’t help noticing that when the man started blocking, the timbre of the sound changed. He could hear the slide and click of metal moving. A veteran with a high-end prosthetic, he figured.

They blocked for each other in turn, then Matt nodded towards the ring. “You want to try your luck?”

Silence again.

“I could hurt you.”

“Likewise.”

Another silence. 

“You can’t see.”

Matt grinned. “I wondered if you’d noticed that,” he said. “Anyway, you’ve got a false arm. I’d say we’re even.”

“Not even close.” The man’s tone had changed, grimmer.

Not something to push.

“How about we finish up here, and we find somewhere that’s still serving food?”

The man shifted his weight on his feet, and Matt braced himself, half-expecting the attack he’d been waiting for since the man entered the room. “You want me to go with you?”

“Why not? I owe you a solid meal for that workout. Been a while since I had someone train with me.”

“Your choice or theirs?”

Matt inclined his head. “Well-spotted. Mine, as a matter of fact. You want to?”

For a long moment, the man said nothing. 

Maybe he was just a homeless guy looking for a reminder of the old days. Maybe it was too much for him to expect any kindness from a stranger. Or maybe he was thinking his target was a dumbass who might as well pay for dinner before he was knifed in an alley.

“Okay.”

They wound up in a hole-in-the-wall joint not far from the gym, wedged into a small booth, their knees knocking against each other under the table. 

From what Matt had already put together, he could tell the guy was around the same height as him, but much more solid. His tread was much heavier, leaning to the left, and it made Matt wonder just how heavy that prosthetic was. From the sound of him, he was about the same age as well, maybe a few years older. It was difficult to tell, when someone sounded as worn out as the man did.

He ordered for both of them when his companion retreated into silence, taking a wild guess on the menu options, based on the smells wafting through from the tiny kitchen. It was hardly going to be gourmet, but a steak and fries never harmed anyone.

“Why are you doing this?”

Matt shrugged. “Like I said, I hadn’t trained with anyone in a while. Call this repayment.”

He heard the creak of the table, and the tap of metal on the surface. Could be tablewear, but the four-way rattle said fingers. 

“You said you used to box?” he offered as an opening. “Local?”

Another of those odd hesitations, as if the man was searching his memories. “Brooklyn. The gym… it’s an apartment block now.”

Matt winced. “Yeah. Happens a lot around here. Especially after everything that happened with the battle of New York.”

“Yeah.” Silence. “The aliens, right?”

Matt nodded. “They beat the city up real good.”

Silence. Tap, tap, tap, tap. “I was overseas. Didn’t hear til later.” 

His chair creaked as he leaned back, and their waitress returned with drinks, setting them on the table. When she walked away, Matt heard the glass scrape towards the edge of the table loudly enough so he could locate it. He reached out, catching it.

“Thanks.”

They subsided into silence again.

Matt traced his fingertip through the condensation on the side of the glass. He’d played it safe and ordered soda, and he could feel the chill of the ice. “So what do I call you?”

“What?” It was so surprised, so spontaneous, overriding the habitual silences.

“Your name. I’m Matt.”

His companion’s breathing was changing, rapid, and his heart was beating faster. All signs of panic, and Matt could feel the tension radiating through the table they were both leaning on as the man struggled to get control of himself.

“You don’t need to,” he said quickly. “I mean, I get it, if you’d rather not say.”

“James.” The word was snapped out like a gunshot. “My name is James. But only my mother calls me that.”

“Well,” Matt said with a rueful smile. “I’m not your mother.”

The man hesitated again, and his fingers rattled on the tabletop. “Bucky. My… friends called me Bucky.”

Matt released the glass and offered his right hand. “Good to meet you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s grip was brief, firm. His skin was callused in interesting ways that suggested a lot of work with his hands. Even his palm was rough. Handled tools, perhaps? Or, going with the military history, maybe weapons and hand-to-hand combat.

The man sat back again when the waitress returned with their food. He could tell the steak was overcooked and the fries were too greasy, but it wasn’t like he could really ask for any better so late, and in this part of town.

He found his glass again and raised it. “To unhealthy meals with complete strangers in random diners,” he said.

To his surprise, his companion snorted. “Yeah.” He tapped his glass to Matt’s. 

Little by little, as they ate, the other man seemed to relax, as if the simple fact of having a meal with another person was something he’d been lacking. 

He also noticed when Matt was reaching for the condiments, and would say at once where each thing was. Not just which direction, but how far, and the shape and size of the object. It wasn’t something that most people would do. Even Foggy forgot about that sometimes, which said this guy had been around someone with a visual impairment for a long while.

“You could do that professionally,” he said with a crooked smile when he found the salt first time.

Bucky snorted again. “Least you let me.”

He almost sounded like a different man without the tension, so Matt risked gently prompting, “Less cooperative people before?”

“You got no idea. Little punk couldn’t take help, even if you were giving it gratis.”

Matt laughed. “Got to say I know the feeling,” he said. “Sometimes, it feels like pity.”

“That’s what he used to say. ‘I’m not made of glass, you jerk. Don’t wrap me in goddamned cotton wool’. Like a light wind wouldn’t knock him down.” He sighed suddenly, sadly. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

It felt like standing on the edge of something dark and tragic. 

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. 

Bucky was silent for a second. “Why?”

“Your friend. I guess he didn’t get well?”

“Oh, he did.” There was something bitter in his tone, still laced with sadness. “He got better. Got to make himself useful, like he always wanted to.” He set down his glass too hard and Matt could hear the drink slosh over the rim. “I oughta go.”

It wouldn’t help to try and stop him.

“I’ll be at the gym same time next week,” he offered. 

Bucky hesitated beside the table. “Yeah?”

“Not often I find someone to train with the poor blind guy,” Matt replied. “Maybe we could even try the ring?”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, sounding puzzled, but pleased. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Matt listened to him walking away. He was walking more lightly now, and there was a change in his heart rate. It was calmer, regular, and that was good. So definitely not a Russian assassin sent by some kingpin or other. Just a regular vet who needed company.

For the price of a steak meal, it was time he could afford to spend.


	2. Chapter 2

Every bone in Matt’s body was aching.

One on one wasn’t usually so bad, but once in a while, there was someone who really knew how to fight. He hadn’t expected it, not after he’d already taken out a dozen gun-toting lackeys, and the last person had spent that whole fight cowering.

You didn’t expect the best warrior to sit in the corner of the room and scream hysterically for help. And convincingly. That was the part that had caught him off-guard, before she had wiped the floor with him, then vanished with the package he’d come to intercept.

It wasn’t the best night, and to top it all off, he had an appointment.

He stepped down off the sidewalk onto the street, cane tapping ahead of him, and winced as the pain jolted up through his torso. Any other night, he would go home, meditate, and pray the crack in the rib wouldn’t become a full-blown break. Not tonight, though.

Bucky would be waiting for him.

Sometimes, he could help through the law. Other times, he could help by putting on the mask. Only recently, he’d found another option: helping a lonely, socially-isolated homeless veteran find his footing. 

They had met at the gym three weeks in a row already. They would do some basic training. Bucky would refuse to get in the ring again. Matt would treat him to a meal somewhere quiet and out of the way, and they would go their separate ways.

He couldn’t just not show up.

His stick skimmed along the sidewalk, and he paused just outside the gym, doing a quick sweep of his surroundings. The streets were still as busy as usual. A few pedestrians were around, but no more than usual. A normal late night in Hell’s Kitchen. 

He could hear the now-familiar buzz of Bucky’s arm already. On the other side of the street. Higher up. The vibrations were running through layers of metal, amplifying like ripples in water. Fire escape, ten levels up. 

It was a good angle for someone watching the gym. Bucky always waited until five minutes after he saw Matt enter, and always from a slightly different position, but always up high, away from the crowds. 

Whether it was force of habit or paranoia about Matt not showing up didn’t really may a difference. There was no reason to push him to meet at the doors. If he wanted to, he could, but until then, Matt knew he would watch and wait from a different vantage point.

The doors were still unlocked, and as usual, a curl of notes changed hands to make sure the keys were left behind. He set his bag down on the bench, hissing through his teeth, as his shoulder shifted in its socket. He could feel the swelling. Dislocations were always a pain in the ass, even after they were shoved back in place.

The door opened behind him, catching him by surprise, and he almost reached for his sticks.

The footfalls were familiar.

Jesus, Bucky could move fast when he wanted.

“You’re hurt.”

Matt grinned, trying to cover a grimace. “Just a fall. I’m okay.”

Bucky moved closer. He’d been smelling better each week, cleaner, less saturated with dirt and the smell of the streets. That was good. It meant he might have found some shelter so he could look after himself. Or maybe he was just coming back to the gym during the day. Whatever it was, if it was helping him, it was good. 

Matt had brought him in some spare clothes the week before. At first, Bucky had been hesitant about taking them, but from the sound of the fabric and the smell of Matt’s own detergent, he was wearing one of the washed out t-shirts and his leather jacket on top.

“What kind of fall?”

“Some stairs.”

“Liar.” Bucky’s hand touched his shoulder and Matt choked on a profanity when the man squeezed. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough that it proved his point. “Did someone beat on you?”

Matt pressed his forefinger and thumb to his eyelids, rubbing them. “It’s a long story, okay? We came here to train.”

“Not tonight.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. They were still a big part of their encounters, those silences, where Bucky was absolutely still and silent, as if he was mentally assessing all aspects of a situation before deciding what to say. “Bullshit.”

Matt sank down to sit on the bench, grimacing. “Fine. Bullshit.” He pressed a hand to his ribs. 

Bucky sat down an arm’s length from him. There was a quickening in his breathing. Not worried. Not concerned. Angry. “Who did it?”

Matt shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Wood splintered and metal whirred. The vibration passed the full length of the bench.

“Did you just… break part of the bench?”

Bucky’s chest was heaving. His breathing was rapid, but so quiet. Stealth training there, even when he was riled up. “I don’t like people who don’t fight fair. Who pick on people who can’t fight back.”

Matt tilted his head back, grinning helplessly at the ceiling. The irony of being considered helpless always amused him. “Oh, don’t worry. I can handle myself.” A finger prodded him in the ribs and he yelped. “Hey!”

“That’s handling yourself?” Bucky said bitterly. 

“You should have seen the other guys.”

Bucky’s arm clattered. Fist clenching. Plates moving. “You’re telling me a bunch of guys picked a fight with a single blind guy?”

Matt breathed slowly in then out. Still just a crack. Not getting any worse. “Who said they were the ones who picked a fight?” He got up, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Behind him, Bucky was still sitting. His heart was still beating fast, but was evening out little by little. “You’re as bad as he was,” he murmured. He got off the bench and Matt could hear him trying to press the cracked piece of wood back into place.

“He?”

Silence.

Fabric shifted. Denser than shirt. Jogging pants. Crouching. 

There was a dull thump of metal meeting wood. Plates shifted again. Bucky’s metal hand forcing the broken piece of wood back together. He stayed down there, and the rest of the bench creaked. Must be leaning on it. 

“My friend.” Bucky’s voice was quiet. “Got in fights too big for him all the time. Almost got himself killed.”

Matt turned to face his direction. “I’m not going to get killed.”

Bucky was so still, his breathing turned shallow. It was muffled, his face pressed against his folded arm on the bench. Whatever training he’d had, he was using it to calm his body to the point of silence. 

Whatever had happened to his friend was the trigger point. The first time they’d met, that was the thing that made him run: when his friend came up. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he had left Bucky behind. 

It wasn’t something Matt could just ask, not when it shut him down or scared him off.

Mutely, he reached out and touched Bucky’s shoulder.

It was the man’s left arm and under the jacket, Matt could feel the place where metal was fused on to flesh. Bucky’s hair brushed against Matt’s hand as he turned his face away. He shuddered, falling from his crouch on his toes, down onto his knees.

“I’m not going to get killed,” Matt said again, quietly, as if he could speak words Bucky’s friend should have been saying to him. “I’ve had worse than this.”

Bucky’s shoulder shook under Matt’s hand, and his laugh was a tight, broken thing. “Like that makes it better.”

Matt squeezed his shoulder, carefully, in case the join of flesh and metal hurt. “How about we play hookie from training tonight?” he said. “I think there’s a hot dog stand half a block away.”

Bucky nodded. His body was so tense that the vibrations shivered all the way through him. “Can’t be as bad as that pizza last week.”

Matt patted his shoulder and stepped back, giving him space to get up. “He said they were olives.”

Bucky swallowed hard as he rose, and Matt could smell the salt of tears as the other man rubbed his eyes. “Olives don’t have fins.”

Matt laughed, then groaned as his ribs pulled tight. “Y’know, I’m kind of glad I couldn’t see how bad it looked.”

“As bad as it sounds,” Bucky said. He moved like lightning when Matt reached for his bag. “I’m carrying that.”

“Do I get a say?”

“No. You’re buying me food. I’m carrying your bag.”

Matt held up both hands. “It’s not like I’m a grown man or anything,” he said dryly, and he heard Bucky turn to look at him. One side of Matt’s mouth turned up. “Am I starting to sound like that friend of yours again?”

“Just like him, when I had to pull him out of the trash can.” He hesitated. “You want my arm?”

It wasn’t necessary, not when he had his stick, but Bucky needed all the contact he could get. Especially when he was the one initiating. It was the first time he had offered, and Matt knew how big a deal that had to be, offering to support someone else. 

“Sure,” he replied, reaching out for his free arm. The leather of the jacket was soft, well-worn, under his hand, and he could feel the muscle beneath it. Once more, he found himself wondering how evenly-matched they would be if they stepped into the ring. “You sure you don’t mind carrying the bag?”

From the grunt as Bucky hefted it onto his left shoulder, he was sure.


	3. Chapter 3

Matt hated being caught off-guard.

Trouble was that sometimes, he was distracted and focussing on the wrong thing at the wrong time. Too many sirens, the rumble of the thunder overhead, cries of distress from a burning building, the whirr of a mechanical arm that belonged to the man he had just spent the last two hours with.

Bucky never said where he was staying, and Matt was halfway tempted to follow him, just to be sure he was keeping safe. He could hear the other man walking east, half a block away already, boots splashing through the puddles, and he might have turned, followed, if he hadn't been caught off-guard.

He distantly registered the running footsteps coming towards him, but when the pace didn't slow, he barely had a second to brace himself before he was body-checked and slammed to the ground. His cane clattered from his hand, and he rolled, scrambling up on hands and knees. His glasses had fallen off, and he heard them crackle under a boot.

Deliberate, he realised, but his assailant was hesitant. His heart was racing, and he was sweating. The smell of alcohol and bile on his breath said he'd invested in some Dutch courage, and it had disagreed with him. Matt heard him shift his weight, changing his position. He didn't want to lash out at a blind man, but he must have been paid enough that it pushed his qualms aside. 

Sometimes, feigning helplessness was the only way too go, even if it was humiliating, but they were in a main street and there were cameras on the walls nearby "Is someone there?" He stretched out one hand. His palm was grazed, but it was minor. "Can you help me up?"

He wasn't surprised when the man grabbed him by the arm and the front of his jacket and jerked him to his feet.

"Shut up," he snarled.

Matt almost laughed aloud when his attacker shoved him back. Less than half a dozen steps, and they were in the an alley, the lights hissing and buzzing. Flickering, which was good. Untended. Damaged lights meant there was even less of a chance of functioning cameras.

That meant no reason to play the victim anymore. 

He let the guy slam him up against a wall, felt the tremor in his hand bunched in the front of Matt's shirt, the tension running the length of his body. Gathering himself for a punch. 

"Who sent you?"

"Shut the hell up!"

Matt grinned. "Wrong answer."

An hour of training with Bucky was a good warm up for anyone, and the knee to the balls sent the man tottering back. A follow-up spin-kick knocked him rolling across the ground. He collided with a dumpster, and groped wildly for a weapon. There were plenty to choose from: metal rods, broken bottles, wooden spars.

Matt straightened up, tilting his head. "You could make this easier on yourself," he said. "Tell me who sent you to attack me."

Drink and panic did stupid things to a man, and his assailant was on his feet again. He staggered, knocking his elbow against the dumpster. Matt turned his head slightly. He could make out the shape of the man by the sound of the rain striking him, and the ragged, hoarse breathing. From his stance, he was gearing up to make a desperate charge.

Too easy.

A sharp, indrawn breath from behind him made Matt turn his head. The whirr of metal that accompanied it told him who was standing there.

No time to play the mild-mannered lawyer now.

His drunken assailant charged. Matt stepped aside smoothly, and kicked out hard with one foot. The blow caught his attacker hard on the hip as he barrelled passed, overbalanced by drink and desperation.

The impact was hard enough to send the man crashing sideways into the wall. His head and shoulder took the impact and he fell, the puddled dirt splashing around him. He was still conscious, but only just, his breathing shallow.

"Jesus Christ," Bucky breathed.

He was less than a dozen paces away, in the entrance of the alley.

Matt crossed the alley to crouch down over his attacker. The man was out, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but it wasn't too deep. Matt sighed, propping his arms on his knees. "How long were you there?" he asked over his shoulder. 

It wasn't like him not to notice, but then, it wasn't like him to get knocked on his ass by a drunk. Could be that the second beer with his meal had been a bad idea.

"Long enough." Bucky came closer. His heart was pounding faster, but he didn't seem afraid by what he'd seen. "You weren't kidding when you said you could handle yourself. Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

Matt tilted his head up towards Bucky. “It’s a long story.”

He heard the shift of Bucky’s clothing as he crouched down, bringing himself closer. “I got all night.” He reached out with his right hand to catch the unconscious man’s chin, his left clacking as it curled into a fist. “You know this guy?”

Matt shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve seen him before.”

He could almost feel Bucky rolling his eyes at him. “Funny, smart guy. I’m serious.”

“Same answer,” Matt replied. “I think he was sent after me. He didn’t want to hit me at first.”

“Yeah. He got over that.”

“He tried.”

The man groaned, stirring. Matt heard Bucky’s hand twisting into the man’s shirt, dragging him up into a sitting position. His left was still clicking, the same sound it usually made before he laid a punch on the bag at the gym.

“Don’t hit him,” Matt cautioned. “I need to know who sent him.”

Bucky went still. He’d been doing it less and less with each encounter, but this was a different kind of stillness. Any other time, it felt like a soldier, waiting. This time, it felt like Foggy when he was upset and angry. “Why would someone come after you? I thought you said you were a lawyer?”

Matt reached out and swatted the groaning man’s face, making him flinch and blink. “I piss people off.”

“Mm.” Bucky was tense as wire beside him. “I can see why.”

Matt turned his focus to the man in front of them. His heart was racing, and he tried to scramble back, but Bucky’s grip was tight. He whimpered aloud, and the sour scent of urine joined the stink of vomit, blood, and alcohol.

“Do you feel like talking now?” Matt smiled at him, though he couldn’t be sure how much the man could see. “Or do you want to try and hit me again?”

“You had it coming!”

“See?” Matt turned his face towards Bucky. “Pissing people off. It’s a skill.” He turned his face back to the man. “Who sent you?”

The man hacked up a clot of blood, spitting it out. “No one sent me.”

Bucky’s metal fist creaked and Matt felt his arm move. He reached out, catching it, before Bucky could swing for the man. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you came after me, and my friend doesn’t like that. So I’ll ask you again: who sent you?”

“No one!”

Matt released Bucky’s arm and the blow knocked the man back, shattering his nose. His scream was muffled as Bucky clamped his hand over the man’s bloody face. The smell of the blood mingled with the smell of oil and metal. 

The man was sobbing, trying to bring up his hands to shield his face. From the stink, they’d gone beyond pissing of pants. Matt wished for once he could turn off his nose. The man was gabbling behind Bucky’s hands, his words were as muffled as his scream had been and Matt nodded to Bucky, who lowered his hand.

“Y-y-you help free the w-woman who killed my brother.”

Matt rocked back on his feet, a sinking feeling in his gut. “What woman?”

“Paige. That Paige bitch.”

His first case with Foggy, when Karen had been falsely accused. “Karen Paige was innocent.”

The man was choking on sobs. “She was found with his body!” His blood was spraying, a fine mist, tainting the air. “She had the knife! She killed him!”

Matt silently reached out and laid his hand on Bucky’s arm, drawing it back from the man’s shirt. “She was framed,” he said, gentling his tone. “She and Daniel were both set up. You must have read about it in the news.”

“No…”

“Yes,” Matt said. He reached out, finding the man’s shoulder. “I know what it’s like, to lose someone like that. I know you want someone to blame. But Karen was as innocent as Daniel. They tried to kill her too.” The man was shaking with wracking sobs. “I’m sorry, Mr Fisher. I truly am, but you’ve come after the wrong person.”

He rose, leaving the man sitting, sobbing, on the ground.

“You’re leaving him?” Bucky was still crouched down by the man. From the direction of his voice, he was still staring at the unfortunate brother of Daniel Fisher. “He attacked you.”

“He’s grieving,” Matt said quietly. “He doesn’t need to be punished for that.”

Before he could reach down and stop him, Bucky had the man by the front of the shirt again. He heard the man cry out in pain and alarm. 

“You come after him again,” Bucky snarled, “I come after you.”

“Bucky!” Matt grabbed him by the shoulder, uncaring of gentleness, and jerked him back. “I said it’s okay!”

Bucky was breathing hard, his shoulders bunched and knotted with tension. He didn’t rise, and his face was still directed Fisher. “Get out of here,” he growled.

Fisher scrambled backwards across the ground. It sounded like he was clawing at the dirt in his haste to rise, and he stumbled. His elbow knocked against a dumpster, setting it ringing, and his foot sank into a puddle that sounded ankle-deep, and then he was gone, spattering away down the street in the rain.

“You shouldn’t let them get away with that.”

Matt eased his grip on Bucky’s shoulder. “It wasn’t malicious. He was hurting.”

Bucky said nothing, and Matt could feel him drawing on that wary armour he had worn the first night they met. He brought his breathing back under control too easily, and his heartbeat was even. It was meant to conceal everything, but the fact that he did it meant that he was trying to hide how he was feeling.

For weeks, he and Bucky had been picking their way through a strange friendship, and now, it felt like it could easily unravel, because of a bloody fist-fight in an alleyway.

“Want to walk with me?”

Bucky didn’t reply at once. “What?”

“I sometimes stop by my Church on the way home. I wouldn’t mind some company to get there.”

For several seconds, it felt like the only sound was the rain beating off the ground.

“Church?”

Matt nodded. “Old-fashioned, I know. But if I’ve had a night like tonight…” He shrugged. “I guess it helps. It’s somewhere quiet in the middle of all of…” He gestured around them. A siren wailed in the distance. The city was never quiet.

Bucky slowly straightened up. “Sure,” he said.

Matt put out his hand, waiting, and Bucky - after the briefest of hesitations - set his arm against it, letting Matt hold onto him. For all his efforts to level out his heartbeat, Bucky’s heart was beating faster, and his breathing suggested he was anxious.

They had gone nearly two blocks before Bucky spoke again. When he spoke, it was like it was coming from a long way off, that he’d been chewing over it for a long while.

“You religious?”

Matt lifted his shoulders. “Everyone’s got to believe something.”

“Yeah.”

They walked another half a block. “You?”

Bucky shivered so slightly that Matt almost missed it. “Used to be.” He laughed, but it was a forced, sharp sound. “Family tradition when I was a kid. You put on your Sunday best. Went to Church. Prayed.”

“Not so much anymore?”

Bucky shook his head. “I…” He breathed out, long and low. “I had other things on my mind. It… I didn’t care about it anymore.”

Matt drew them both to a halt. “You don’t need to come, not if you don’t want to. I have my stick.”

He could hear Bucky’s metal hand clenching and unclenching. “I want to,” he said softly, but vehemently. There was something in his tone: longing, wistfulness, need. “Like I used to.”

Like the boxing, Matt thought. Little by little, Bucky was finding pieces of his old life, taking comfort from them.

“Okay,” he said, setting off again, knowing Bucky would match his pace.

It wasn’t a long walk, and Bucky didn’t even seem to notice that Matt was leading him, rather than the other way around. He was still anxious, but not in the heart-pounding way he had been. It felt less like terror and more like hope.

“You come here a lot?” Bucky asked as Matt drew them to a stop outside the building. 

One of the doors was always open, and he could smell the waft of the smoke from candles that always seemed to be burning. Of course, the city being what it was, he could also hear the security camera’s quiet buzz, just above the open door.

“When I need to,” he replied. He paused, frowning. “I never asked if you were Catholic.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “God’s God wherever, right?” he finally asked, and his voice was softer, smaller, almost like a child asking for reassurance. 

“Right,” Matt murmured. 

Bucky took a shaking breath. “I think I’d like to come in, if that’s okay.” His arm was trembling. “I won’t bother you.”

Matt smiled. “You’d be welcome,” he said.

The church was quiet when they entered. In one alcove, someone was huddled in a pile of blankets. Father Lanton always left a stack of them on the pews, in case anyone wandered in during the night, in need of shelter.

Matt gently released Bucky’s arm and made his way towards the nearest pew, his hand extended to find the back of it. He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, then closed his eyes.

Bucky was still standing just short of the door. 

His breathing had quickened when they entered, nervous energy tensing him like a wire. It was easing now, as he breathed in and out, but he was still clenching his hands anxiously. The clicking rattle of his metal hand echoed strangely off the buttresses. 

He moved into the building, slowly, each step echoing back, and towards the sandy trays and the flickering candles. He stopped there. It seemed to calm him, just watching them. Matt heard the clink of a coin in the offering box, and the whisper of a candle being drawn from the box by the stand. 

The scent of the wick taking light mingled with the slow-burning smoke from the other candles. It wavered when Bucky exhaled unsteadily, and the metal hand clicked again as he set the candle down.

“Our Father…” His whisper was faint, barely even echoing.

Matt closed his ears.

Some words were for God alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fyi, my headcanon is Anglican Bucky, just in case anyone wonders, because in 1920-30s New York, the Anglicans were somewhat more upwardly mobile than the Catholics, specifically the Irish Catholics :)


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky was late.

Usually, when Matt reached the gym, he could hear the nearby sound of Bucky’s arm, but for once, he wasn’t within a block’s radius. That was unusual enough, but when he didn’t show up ten minutes later, Matt was starting to worry.

They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. He didn’t even know if Bucky had a phone or not.

That left one option.

The roof of the gym wasn’t as high as the buildings around it, but it was better than nothing. He scrambled up the fire escape, and onto the flat surface, then took a steadying breath, and closed all his senses but his hearing.

The city swelled around him, the shape of buildings on all sides, the labyrinth of passages and streets. People were walking, running, laughing, crying, all the sounds rushing over him in a smothering torrent.

It was like trying to find a single fish in a shoal, constantly swirling, glittering and fast.

Matt pressed his hands to the edge of the roof, breathing deeper. Bucky would have been on the way here, so unless he had been waylaid elsewhere, he could still be nearby. He reached out further, not for a person, but for that familiar sound.

It was faint when he heard it, and it was the rattling click that meant Bucky’s hand was a tensed fist.

Matt’s stomach dropped.

He was in trouble.

Without hesitation, he opened up all his senses. There were a dozen streets to cover, and so many buildings of different levels. Rooftop. 

He was running even before he concluded the thought, leaping onto an opposing fire escape and scrambling up it like a spider on a web. The metal was cold and rattled against his hands, and he flipped over onto another rooftop without breaking stride. 

Ahead of him, the rattling click was a signal for him.

He darted across the rooftop, and leaped as hard and fast as he could. The impact sent a shockwave through him, and he rolled, springing up from hands to feet, only a brief break in his pace. The next roof was angled, tricky, but he managed to land light on the ridge that ran along the top. Bad shoes for it, but no other choice. 

As he dived off the building, aiming for the next level down, and a building across, he caught the trailing weight of a flag, his momentum swinging him like a pendulum. At the zenith, he let go, arcing through the air, and landed lightly on the balcony of some fine-sounding establishment. 

Luckily, the couple inside were too busy to spot him running the length of their balcony and jump straight off the other side. 

The clicking was fainter now. Weaker.

Still in the same place, though, which was both good and bad. 

It meant he was cornered.

As Matt scrambled up another fire escape, he heard a cry of pain.

Bucky.

He didn’t realise he could run faster, until he was doing it, taking the stairs three at a time, until he was on the rooftop and running, running, running straight for the edge. It was a big jump, a long one, but he had the speed and he had the trajectory, and when he catapulted himself into the air, he felt the wind tear at his face, and his heart pounding.

The impact of the edge of the roof against his ribs drove the breath out of his lungs, but he pulled himself up, stumbling on. One more street. Other side of the building. Not far too go now.

And then he was above them, and he could hear four, no, five heartbeats aside from Bucky’s. Racing hearts, fear and adrenaline and anger. Bucky’s was slower. He was low down, his breathing gasps against the ground. From the smell of it, he was bleeding.

All five were armed. Matt could smell gunshot residue. One of them was bleeding too, more heavily than Bucky, but he was upright. One of his companions was supporting him, judging by the proximity of their heartbeats, and the fact their pulses were syncing. 

“Confirm extraction.”

Matt moved closer to the edge of the roof.

“ETA two minutes.”

Two minutes.

Matt smiled darkly.

A lot could happen in two minutes.

For example, a strange man could drop off the roof directly above you, taking out two of your number with his landing. He could also disarm one of your allies, then lay him out with a roundhouse kick before you even turn around, and when you do turn around, you would be surprised - in the split second of consciousness you had left - to see the full weight of a gun flying at your head. 

And your one remaining friend would try and be a hero. He might even have a knife out to stop the strange man, but he really wouldn’t be very good at it, not when he kept stepping right into kicks and punches. It would really be embarrassing for you guys if you could see how easily you were laid out in less than sixty seconds. 

Matt knocked the final man out properly with a solid punch, then straightened up. “Bucky?”

Bucky was conscious. He was breathing unsteadily, and from the stillness and angle of his body, he had to be staring. “How…?”

Matt winced. “I’ll explain,” he said, hurrying closer, “but now, we’ve got to get you out of here.” He held down a hand to Bucky. “They’re sending an extraction team, and something tells me that it’s not something either of us want.”

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his. “Damn right.” He staggered as he pulled himself up, and Matt could hear how laboured and pained his breathing was. “Where to?”

Matt had no idea. First thing that came to mind was his apartment, but they didn’t have time, and Bucky was in bad shape. 

“Cab first, then we work it out.”

Bucky managed to flag one down, and as they were pulling away from the kerb, Matt could feel Bucky twisting in the seat to look out of the windshield. Almost instantly, he sank down in the seat, as if he had seen someone he wanted to avoid.

“Where you boys headed? You want the ER?”

Matt could hear Bucky’s heart rate spiking. Hospitals were a no-no, then. Instead, he gave the address of the gym, laughingly suggesting they were going there for self-defence classes, which made the driver snort, and Bucky’s racing heart slow down.

Bucky didn’t say a thing until they were back inside the gym, and the door was closed behind them. “How?”

Matt shook his head. “First aid kit, first,” he said. “You’re hurt.”

Bucky went still, then Matt heard the familiar sliding clicks. “You too.”

Matt frowned. He’d been so caught up in the fight, he’d barely noticed the glancing blows, but now that Bucky had drawn his attention to it, he could feel a stinging throb across the left side of his ribs. That wasn’t a punch. 

He put his hand to his side, under his jacket, and it came away wet.

“Damn.”

Bucky caught him by the arm with his right hand, dragging him to sit on the bench. His heart rate was picking up again, frantic and worried. He knelt down in front of Matt and tore at his shirt, as if Matt was incapable of doing it himself. The smell of copper suddenly flooded Matt’s senses. Bucky sounded like he was about to have a panic attack. When he swore, it wasn’t in a language that Matt recognise, and his hand was shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding.

He was frantic, and he was scared, and that wasn’t going to help anyone.

Matt reached out with both hands, catching Bucky’s face gently between his palms. It made Bucky jolt, startled, and his breath was hot on Matt’s wrists.

“I’m okay,” Matt said softly. “I am.”

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky’s voice was shaking.

“I know,” Matt murmured, “but we both need to be calm, okay? I can talk you through helping me with this, okay?” He slid one hand down to Bucky’s chest, hand on his heart. “Put your hand on my chest, Buck. Like this.”

Bucky obeyed, trembling.

“Now, breathe with me, okay? It’ll help. With me. Okay?”

He heard the rustle of Bucky’s hair, felt the movement of his cheek against Matt’s palm, a dip of his head that suggested a nod.

He forced himself to remember Stick’s training, how to meditate and centre himself, how to find that calm place, and the equilibrium it brought. He breathed slow and deep, and under his hands, he felt Bucky trying - struggling - to do the same. 

“It helps,” he said again, low, quiet. Breathe in, hold, and out. Slow and easy.

Bucky’s cheek was twitching against Matt’s hand, rough with stubble, and swollen. Hot moisture seeped against Matt’s fingers. It wasn’t blood. He was breathing with Matt, and Matt’s palm was wet.

“Okay?”

Bucky nodded again. “You’re still bleeding.” His voice was steadier.

“I know,” Matt replied. “There’s a kit over by the desk. They usually have sutures.”

Bucky was across the room and back in seconds. The box clattered onto the bench, and Matt couldn’t help noticing that Bucky was struggling to open the box one-handed. His metal arm was being unusually quiet. 

“What did they do to your arm?”

Bucky flinched. “EMP. Disabled it. It’s rebooting.”

Matt grimaced. “So they targeted you specifically. You know who sent them?”

Bucky shuddered. He leaned closer to Matt, carefully cleaning the wound. He was quiet so long that Matt was genuinely surprised when he spoke. “HYDRA.”

Matt felt sick. Everyone and their mom knew about HYDRA. When the secret agency, SHIELD, fell, it turned out that a Nazi organisation had been in the middle of it from day one, cancer eating its way out. Rumour was they had interfered with special forces, which made him wonder how badly they had messed with Bucky in the past, if he was valuable enough for them to come looking for him.

“You stopped them,” Bucky broke the silence. “You didn’t tell me how.” His arm shuttered and whirred, booting up. “Please. How?”

Matt braced his hands on his knees as Bucky continued to clean his knife wound. It was long, but thankfully not too deep. “I think you’ve figured out some of it.”

Bucky tore open the packet for the sutures, and Matt shivered at the chill of metal fingers gently pressing his skin back together. “I know you’ve had training,” he said, and there was a weariness in his tone that made Matt ache down to the bone. “I know someone took you and turned you into a weapon.”

“It’s a good thing, Buck,” Matt said quietly. He didn’t even wince when the needle broke his skin. It was familiar now. Too familiar. Only this time, it wasn’t Claire. It was a scared and confused veteran. “I can help people.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just drawing the wound closed one stitch at a time. 

When he tied the stitches off, and cut the excess, he pressed a swab in place and stuck it there with tape.

“I heard stories,” he said quietly, “about some crazy guy in a mask. The devil of Hell’s Kitchen, they used to call him.” He lowered his hands, and Matt could tell by the dulled sound that he was pressing both palms to his thighs. “Used to wear black. Now, he’s running around in a red outfit, taking out the bad guys.”

Matt reached out, his fingers encountering Bucky’s bowed head, and tangled hair. “Bucky…”

“Are you him?” Bucky whispered. His whole body was rigid with tension. “Daredevil? Are you him?”

Matt sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. It was strange to say it out loud, to say it to anyone.

Bucky gave a small, sharp laugh. “Christ. I know how to pick my friends.” He tilted his head under Matt’s hand, and Matt sat back, to give him space. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you could take care of yourself, were you?”

Matt smiled helplessly. “I have a few skills.”

Bucky breathed out noisily. “Jesus.” He knelt up, the fabric of his pants shifting. “No wonder you look like a goddamn patchwork quilt.”

Matt couldn’t help laughing. “Hey, I’ll have you know I have received some damn fine needlework.”

Bucky snorted. “Not tonight.”

Matt reached out and found Bucky’s metal arm, running his fingers from elbow to shoulder. “What about you? You were bleeding back there. Is there anything I can help with?”

“Apart from getting yourself stabbed?”

“Slashed,” Matt corrected. “Not stabbed.”

“Potato, potatoe,” Bucky retorted. 

“Buck…”

“No.” He went quiet for a moment. “I’ve had worse.”

Matt nodded, fingers pressing to Bucky’s shoulder, where flesh met metal. “I think we both have.”

Bucky sighed, his breath hot and warm and even. “Can we get a drink? Tonight hasn’t been the best, and I think a drink would make it better.”

Matt nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “Maybe we should get cleaned up first.”

“You think?” Matt started laughing, then clutched his stitches. “Ow.”

Bucky grunted as he got to his feet. “Serves you right.” He turned away, but under his breath, muttered fondly, “Jackass.”

Matt couldn’t help smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

For once, nothing had interfered with their training session at the gym. No HYDRA operatives abducting veterans from the streets. No unexpected attacks by strange assailants. Not even a protest from Howie about leaving the keys with them.

Matt had even persuaded Bucky to get into the ring with him, which was a first.

It had been so long since Matt had sparred with anyone. The pressure of the gloves around his hands brought back memories of earlier days, when his father had showed him how to keep them up, to protect his centre and his face. After his dad died, no one would even dare spar with him. No one but Stick, and that wasn't boxing.

No one was willing to risk hitting the blind kid.

Bucky was still nervous, shifting on his feet on the canvas. Matt could hear the now-familiar nervous flutter of Bucky's heart a second before Bucky brought it back under his control. He must have been one hell of a soldier back in the day. 

"You don't need to worry," Matt said. "You're not going to hurt me."

"You don't know that."

Matt laughed, knocking his gloves together. "I think I do." He rolled his shoulders, loosening his stance. "Do you want to box or freestyle? Because if we freestyle, you need to know I will be handing your ass to you in less than a minute."

Bucky snorted, and from the shift in his position and breathing, he was comforted by Matt's words. "Anyone ever tell you you're a cocky son of a bitch?"

Matt grinned. "Once or twice."

Bucky was silent for a moment. It wasn't the same as his silences in their earlier encounters. He no longer felt like he was trying to piece together a response. This time, he was considering the options.

Finally, he said, "Boxing first. See how much of a palooka you are."

Matt held out his gloves and grinned when Bucky knocked them with his own. Some traditions stuck.

They took up their positions in the ring. Matt took a breath, centring himself, and put every bit of his focus on Bucky. 

Weeks of training together meant he could recognise every one of the sounds Bucky's arm made when lining up for a particular angle or blow, but Bucky didn't know that. Maybe it was an unfair advantage, but then, Bucky had an arm strong enough to punch through concrete, so it was evening the odds a little. 

At first, Bucky was hesitant.

Maybe he didn't realise it, but even without the whirr of his arm, he telegraphed his movements from the shift of his weight to the the way he stepped forward. Matt easily blocked a careful jab, then another. He barely even had to move.

"Is that all you've got?" 

"It just feels unfair." 

Matt grinned at him. He could hear the way the plates were shifting on Bucky's arm. Lowering his guard. Big mistake. "Yeah?" He darted forward and peppered Bucky's ribs with several shoe shins before Bucky could even get his arms back up. "Like that?"

Bucky danced back several steps. "Hey!"

"You lowered your guard," Matt retorted. 

Bucky's breathing picked up, and his heart was going faster. Not angry. Excited. "So that's how it's going to be?"

Matt shrugged, forcing down a grin. "Think you can keep up?"

Whatever inhibitions Bucky had, they looked like they were done with. "You're on."

When he moved, Matt was both startled and impressed with his speed. He'd had Bucky pegged as an outside fighter, but he got himself right in close, and came in with a sharp right cross. When Matt brought up his arm to deflect it, his left was already swinging in for a hook. 

Matt skipped aside to dodge the blow, and slipped a sharp punch under Bucky's guard, catching him with an uppercut beneath his left arm. The metal was cool, the plates sliding against his bare arm, and the impact of the glove against Bucky's ribs rippled up his arm. He felt and heard the breath burst from Bucky's lungs as the other man pulled his guard back.

It didn't slow him down at all. 

He struck back with a rapid jab and cross that caught Matt off-guard. Several more quick and darting blows followed it, pushing Matt back one step, then another. He remembered his dad’s lessons, kept his gloves up, right until the moment his back touched the ropes.

When they had you on ropes, they thought they had you good, especially if they thought they were pushing you back. If they didn’t realise you were letting them push, they let their own guard down enough to make a mistake.

The suckerpunch that came out of nowhere slipped right beneath Bucky’s tight guard and caught him right in the breadbasket. He folded with a startled grunt, but didn’t fall.

“Jesus,” he gasped.

An uppercut knocked him back a step, his balance shot, and a right hook sent him stumbling sideways. He recovered quickly, planting his feet, one, two, in a solid defensive stance, but he was surprised, and there was pleasure there too.

Matt moved back towards the centre of the ring, grinning from ear to ear. 

“How you holding up, champ?” he said with mock concern.

Bucky took a deep breath, then straightened up. “I’m thinking I’m going to regret this.”

This time, when he attacked, it was fast and he wasn’t holding back. Matt barely had time to realise just how fast the man was before he was blocking and returning Bucky’s blows with rapid combinations. Bucky knew his stuff. They both did. No hesitations, no holding back, ducking, weaving, sharp jabs, lucky uppercuts that managed to break through tight guards. 

They got in close, they broke apart. 

Gloves connected with ribs, guts, even a headshot or two. Both of them were breathing as hard as the other, the only sounds their panted breaths, the pound of leather on flesh, and the hiss of their shoes as they darted and skimmed across the canvas.

There was no bell. No one to call time. No rounds.

They were matched, too well matched. Matt could anticipate Bucky’s next move, almost to the second, but Bucky could take a blow like no one else Matt had ever heard of. 

How long it went on, he had no idea, basking in the pleasure of the sport. By and by, they were still moving, and the clock was ticking, and every move was getting slower, each blow weaker, and they were both shambling.

“Corner?” Matt panted.

Bucky staggered back two steps, sucking in deep breaths. “Towel.”

Matt’s laugh was more of a wheeze. “Thank Christ,” he groaned, and sagged down to his knees. He felt the canvas vibrate as Bucky dropped down to sit too, and he let himself fall onto his side and rolled onto his back, arms spread wide. His muscles were aching, twitching with exertion, and he could feel the sweat soaked through his wife beater. 

Bucky was still sitting upright, but he had his hands splayed on the surface. His heart was racing and Matt could feel the vibrations passing through from his left arm, a low level hum that made the canvas buzz softly beneath them.

Matt brought one arm up to rub at his chest with his glove. “You were holding back.”

Bucky’s breath hitched and he tensed. “I didn’t- I…” He blew out a breath. “You don’t want me hitting at full strength.”

“Damn right.” He grinned at the ceiling. “I like my ribs in one piece for a change. We were only sparring anyway.” He rolled onto his belly with effort and dragged himself over to the edge of the ring, groping down for their bottles of water. With the gloves on, it was tricky to flip them up into the ring, but he was used to tricky. He rolled Bucky’s over to him, then sprawled back onto his back. “Jesus. I’ll be stiff for a week.”

He heard the pop of Bucky opening his bottle, and the gush of water. “You okay?” he finally asked, and the wariness was back. “I didn’t… you’re not hurt?”

Matt lifted his own bottle between his gloves hands and squirted some water into his mouth, gulping it down. “You just gave me a workout without trying to kill me,” he said, turning his head towards Bucky. “It’s kind of nice to spar with someone who isn’t actively trying to knock my head off.”

The words seemed to ease the tension that was radiating out of the other man. “Yeah. Been a while.”

Matt heard the hiss of laces being pulled loose. Probably by teeth. A thump followed, one of Bucky’s gloves dropped to the canvas, followed by another. He extended his own arm. “Can you unlace mine? I suck at knots.”

Bucky shuffled across the canvas on his knees, and it was a relief to know that he was feeling as physically exhausted as Matt was. It took him a couple of tries, then he pulled Matt’s glove off.

Matt winced, flexing his fingers. “Next time, we bring a timer.”

“Mm.” Bucky was working on the other glove. He paused. “Next time?”

Matt shrugged as much as he could while horizontal. “Why not?”

Relief and warmth radiated from Bucky. “Seriously?”

With effort, Matt pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to,” he said. He folded his hands together, massaging his fingers together. “No one wants to box with me because of…” He motioned to his face with one hand. “I’m betting it would be the same for you with your arm.”

Bucky snorted quietly. “You have no idea.”

Matt smiled. “So we’re on for another round or two next week?”

“Sure.” 

Matt could hear the smile in Bucky’s voice. It was a rare expression, and it made him smile in response to know that he’d earned it. Maybe he was only giving Bucky back a little bit of his old life, but it made a difference. Having that place to go, those memories, it wasn’t a bad thing, if it made you feel happier.

Okay, yeah, he would be walking like a robot in the morning, but getting a smile out of his quiet, serious friend was worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

Of all the things to hear in the hallway outside of his office, the metallic whirr of Bucky’s arm was the last thing Matt expected.

He was halfway to the door of his office before he remembered to check whether Karen was still out on lunch. Thankfully, she was, so only Foggy saw him run to the main doors of the office, and open it just as Bucky reached it.

He wasn’t alone.

Matt gave them a cursory flick of attention. Soldiers. Combat-ready. One armed. The other one unarmed, but with the bulk that spoke of skill in physical combat. His heart was also going faster than any heart Matt had ever heard before, but not out of fear or exertion.

They weren’t threats.

“Sam. Perimeter.” The bigger man spoke. Commanding voice. Used to obedience.

“On it.” The other man darted to the windows, pulling down the shutters.

Matt’s focus was on his friend.

“Bucky?” he prompted.

Bucky’s breath was rasping, and he was leaning heavily on the taller of the two men. “Sorry about this.” He was in a lot of pain. There was the smell of burned flesh and blood and the lingering taint of gunshot residue.

“Foggy!” Matt yelled. “First aid kit!” He stepped forward and took Bucky’s left arm. “Here. Sit down. We’ll get you patched up.”

The door of Foggy’s office opened. He vaguely registered Foggy’s sharp gasp and the door slammed again.

Matt hissed between his teeth in exasperation. “Foggy! Get out here!”

“It’s okay.” The taller man. “Tell me where it is.”

Matt gestured over to the kitchenette. “Top cupboard, right side.”

The man moved off. Where Bucky sometimes pounded around like a bull, the other man moved like a cat, light on his feet. He moved so smoothly that he barely even disturbed the air.

Matt turned his attention back to Bucky, reaching for his jacket. The leather was seared and torn, and Bucky made the smallest sound of pain when Matt eased it down his arm. A cracked ulna. Open gashes. Blood dripping on the floor. 

The worst by far was the burned flesh. Even before he pulled away the scraps of the t-shirt, he could feel the heat radiating from Bucky’s ribcage. He held out his hand, as close to Bucky’s skin as he could. A raw, blistered burn - still giving off heat and as wide as Matt’s palm - scorched across the bones.

“What happened?”

Bucky was breathing slow and even, but the slow and even that spoke of years of control and conditioning by his trainers. That was never good. It usually meant he was trying to hide how bad things were. “My fault.”

“The hell it was.” The big man was rigid. He was angry, but it was a controlled anger, an anger waiting to be unleashed. Matt knew it well. “This wasn’t your fault, Buck.”

Matt held out his hand for the first aid box. “How about we get him patched up first,” he said, taking the box and opening it up. He darted his fingers across the contents, then winced in apology. “It’s going to hurt like a bitch when I clean this.”

Bucky laughed tightly. “Had worse.”

Matt tilted his head towards the big man. “Can you hold him down?”

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because the big man went tense as if Matt had just insulted his mother.

“It’s okay,” Bucky breathed. “Do it. He needs to know I won’t punch his lights out.” He laughed tightly. “He knows how hard I can punch.”

“Buck…”

“Do it.”

The big man clearly didn’t want to. His hands flexed and shivered, then he nodded and his arms were around Bucky, one below the wound, one above. Somewhere behind him, Matt heard Foggy whispering “oh god” over and over and over.

Matt closed his eyes, breathed in, taking in the scent, the depth, the texture of the wound, the taste of ozone that clung to it. It felt like a laser burn, rather than explosive. They had a spray for burns, but whether it would be enough, he didn’t know.

He reached down to the floor and ripped a chunk of the torn coat, folding it over. “Bite down on this,” he said, then lifted the spray and the icy jet hit the burn.

Bucky’s scream was stifled by the leather clenched between his teeth. His whole body spasmed and his heart-rate rocketed, as he jerked against the other man’s arms. His feet scudded at the ground and Matt had to grab his ankles to keep him from kicking out.

“Easy, Buck,” the big man whispered. His voice was breaking, and he sounded on the verge of tears, but his grip didn’t waver. Arms like steel cables to hold someone as strong as Bucky down like that. “Easy.”

Bucky was keening and thrashing, his whole body taut with pain.

Matt knelt up, reached for Bucky’s face as he had the night Bucky found out his identity, pressing his palms to Bucky’s cheeks. “Remember what I told you, when you stitched me up, Bucky?” he whispered. “You remember that?”

Bucky whimpered, but nodded against his palm. 

“Good. You remember that.” He reached, hand shaking, for Bucky’s flesh hand and pulled it against his chest, pressing it there. His other hand, he pressed to Bucky’s chest. “Breathe with me, okay? Breathe with me.”

Gradually, Bucky’s ragged, agonised panting slowed until it almost matched Matt’s slow, deep, even breathing. He was shaking. The pain would have put any other man into shock, but Bucky was tougher than most.

“Okay, Buck?” The big man had loosened his grip from a restraint to an embrace, holding him with surprising gentleness.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered. “Yeah…” 

Matt rocked back on his heels, reaching for the first aid box. The cuts on Bucky’s arms were deep, and bleeding freely. It was easy work to find the needle and the sutures he’d smuggled into the medical kit, and he set to work stitching carefully.

It was work he could do without thinking, and he let his senses spread out from Bucky again, to take in the rest of the room.

The big man was on edge. He was still holding Bucky, and Bucky was leaning back into him, trusting him. That was enough to make Matt trust the guy, this soldier with the heart going at a thousand miles a minute. He was talking quietly, soothingly. Brooklyn accent, stronger than Bucky’s. No Russian in there.

His friend, by the windows, was keeping eyes on the street. No. Not on the street. The angle of the blinds, and the shift of the air said that he had them tilted downwards inside. That meant he was looking to the sky.

Foggy was barely beyond his office door. He was still repeating the same two words over and over again, his heart racing. There was a hell of a lot of fear, but also an element of excitement that he hadn’t felt since Foggy crossed paths with Sandra Bullock on Broadway.

Matt finished the stitches, and started wiping up the blood on Bucky’s arm. “You want to tell me why you’re here?” he asked quietly, reaching for gauze and bandages. “I get the feeling it’s not for my bedside manner.”

There was a brief silence. 

Bucky breathed out, long and slow. “I…” He laughed, tight. “I need your help.”

Matt tilted his head. In all the months they had known one another, Bucky had never once asked for anything. Bucky’s heart was leaping, afraid. Afraid of being turned away. Afraid of what? “What kind of help?”

Bucky groped for Matt’s hand with his metal hand, holding it still on the bandages. “You said… you’re a lawyer, aren’t you? One of Nelson and Murdock, right?”

Matt could feel how much Bucky was shaking. Even his metal hand was trembling. 

“Yeah,” he said. “What’s this about?”

Bucky took a shuddering breath. “Shit… I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t drag you into this. I’ve got these guys in enough trouble already.”

“Buck, it’s not trouble! This isn’t your fault!” The big man sounded angry, but it wasn’t with Bucky. “If that jackass even tries to come after you again…”

“He had every right to!” Bucky exclaimed. “Jesus, Steve, I killed his parents!”

“That wasn’t you!”

Bucky’s breathing was catching again, choking back and smothering a sob. The big man moved, his cat-tread circling the chair, and his hand was on Matt’s shoulder. 

“Give us a second, would you?”

Matt nodded. “Sure,” he said softly, backing up and turning away. He heard the way their heartbeats moved closer together, the way Bucky’s choked sob was muffled in the man - Steve’s - shoulder, the shift of fabric underneath his grasping fingers as he clutched at his friend’s back.

“Matt!” Foggy was trying his best to speak in a whisper. “Matt!” He jerked his hand, stirring the air. Beckoning. Matt moved towards him, wiping Bucky’s blood off his hands. “Matt, what the hell?”

“That’s the vet I told you about,” Matt murmured. “He’s a good guy.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good guy. The guy who blew up fricking Washington DC is a good guy!” Foggy’s voice was rising and he hushed himself. “Do you even realise you’re standing in the same room as Captain fricking America?”

Matt blinked blankly. “What?”

“Your buddy over there is the Winter Soldier, Matt.” Foggy’s voice was urgent. “You remember? Fall of SHIELD? One-armed cyborg assassin guy? He’s the guy sitting right there, hugging Captain America. In our office.”

“You guys do know they can both hear you, right?” The third man spoke from the window. “Hell, I can hear you and I don’t even have any of those superhero things going on for me.”

Matt could feel Bucky’s trepidation in the unsteadiness of his breathing and the way he was averting his face. He turned back towards them, and gave the friend - Steve Rogers? - his full attention for the first time.

The man rose, standing straight and tall. Like Bucky, he was good at holding himself still. Soldier. No. More than that. The supersoldier of legend. His heart was still racing, but everything else was calm and still as a pool.

“We going to have a problem, Mr Murdock?” he asked, his voice placid, but with steel beneath it.

Matt shook his head. “No, sir,” he said, mouth dry. “Is that why you came here?”

Steve Rogers folded his arms over his chest. He was wearing a leather coat too, and it creaked, the leather straining. The size of those arms, the strength behind them, was terrifying and awe-inspiring at the same time.

“Bucky needs a lawyer he can trust. He said you were a good friend to him. Can you be a good lawyer and defend him too?”

“Steve, don’t,” Bucky whispered. “Don’t drag him into this shitstorm.” 

“Who am I defending him against?” Matt said, cutting over him.

Bucky’s laugh was brittle. “Everyone I ever hurt.”

“Right now,” Steve Rogers said, “Tony Stark.”

Pieces fitted into place. Iron Man. The burn. The fact their companion was watching the sky rather than the ground. The fact they were hiding out in a downtown lawyer’s office instead of the building known as Avengers’ Tower.

“Oh shit…” Foggy groaned. “Matt, you can’t go against Stark.”

Matt ignored him. He stepped around Steve Rogers, and went back to Bucky, crouching down in front of him. “You said ‘I killed his parents’. Were you talking about Stark?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice was shaking.

“He didn’t.”

“Steve…”

“The Winter Soldier did that. You aren’t the Winter Soldier anymore, Buck! Anyone who’s ever met you can tell!”

Bucky’s heart rate was accelerating again, spiking with anxiety and distress.

Matt turned his head sharply. “Captain, if you don’t mind. I need to talk to my client.”

He didn’t know what reaction he could expect. He definitely didn’t expect the relief and approval that swept out from Steve Rogers like a wave.

“No problem, Mr Murdock,” Rogers said. “I’ll wait with Sam.”

Matt turned his focus completely back to Bucky. “You want to talk privately?” he offered quietly. “I have an office.”

Bucky jerked his head. “No. It’s okay.”

Matt rose, and fetched the second chair, sitting down facing him. “Tell me about the Winter Soldier.” He heard Rogers release an explosive breath, but ignored it, keeping his focus on Bucky. “Who is the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky seemed to be struggling to find the words, wetting his lips, swallowing hard. “He’s me. Or I’m him.” He took a short breath, then another. Uncertain. He sounded like he did in the early days in the gym, when he was trying to piece together everything he knew. “It’s what they… made me into. The Russians.”

Matt nodded. He remembered reading the SHIELD and HYDRA files. There wasn’t a whole lot about the Winter Soldier, but there was enough to know that you never wanted to have him sent after you. They took what the Germans had done to the man and pushed it further.

“They…hurt me.” Bucky’s voice had levelled out, but it was flat, and Matt could hear the whirring of his metal hand as it clenched and unclenched. “They…” His breath caught, tightening with pain and recollection. “They took who I was. Tore it out of me. Put the Winter Soldier in instead.”

Matt felt acid rising in his throat. “How?” he asked softly.

Bucky’s arm clattered, and though his heart rate was a dull, steady beat, he was sweating, and there was a tremor running right through him. Matt reached out silently and offered his hand. Bucky’s flesh-and-blood had grasped it like a lifeline. 

“Take your time, Bucky,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm. 

“Steve shouldn’t hear this,” Bucky said, his voice little more than a mumble. “He shouldn’t. He’ll do something dumb.”

“Think about who you’re talking to, Bucky.”

Bucky’s hand shook in Matt’s, but he laughed unsteadily. “Shit. I should never have let you in the same room as him.” He tightened his grip on Matt’s hand. “Don’t do anything stupid. Please.”

“I’ll try,” Matt murmured. “Tell me.”

Little by little, Bucky explained, and it was like something out of a nightmare: machines to strip his memories, machines to implant new memories of missions and tasks, machines to freeze him and put him in storage like a slab of meat. The small fragments that were left of Bucky Barnes were pushed into the smallest, darkest corner of his consciousness. The Winter Soldier filled in the rest of the space. 

It was a weapon. He was a weapon. Nothing more or less.

“Jesus.”

Matt hadn’t even noticed Foggy coming to stand behind him. He could hear the scratch of the pencil on the pad, now that he was listening for it, but every bit of his concentration had been on Bucky, on keeping him calm, and talking. 

“You’re better now, though, right?” Foggy asked. “I mean, the Winter Soldier. It’s gone?”

Bucky went rigid, and Matt wrapped both his hands around Bucky’s tense one. 

“No,” he answered for him. He frowned, struggling for some way to make sense of it for them. “You put something like that in, it leaves traces behind. Like the crap that went in my eyes.” He turned his head towards Steve Rogers. “Like the serum they put into you. It might be gone now, but you can’t get rid of what it did to you.”

Bucky curled his fingers to cling to Matt’s hand. “I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Buck…” Rogers came back across towards them. He sounded devastated. “Jesus, Buck. I didn’t realise.”

“I told you,” Bucky sounded tired. “I’m never going to be the Bucky you knew. There’s too much of the Winter Soldier in me now. I’m not that guy anymore.”

Rogers crouched down beside Bucky’s chair, and slapped him lightly on the knee, gently enough that Bucky didn’t even flinch. “You’re still a jerk.”

There was a flutter in Bucky’s heart rate, and he managed a faint laugh. “And you’re still a punk.”

“And we’re still taking on Stark and his army of lawyers,” Foggy put in. “Matt, what do you need me to do?”

Matt considered their options. “If Stark’s trying to take Bucky down for crimes the Winter Soldier committed, we need to work with the angle that he’s trying to take down a prisoner of war who was tortured, abused, brainwashed, and controlled, and who - for the first time in seventy years - is free.”

“I killed people,” Bucky said quietly. “I can’t deny it.”

“Your body did the work, but you, James Barnes, are not the weapon. The weapon is part of you, but now, you control it.” Matt squeezed his hand. “We can even use that tin suit of his against him.” He turned his head towards Steve. “You’re going to be going up against your allies if we do this, Captain, and it’s not going to be easy.”

“I know,” Rogers said grimly, “but I would rather stand with my friend.”


	7. Chapter 7

Karen returned while they were trying to decide on the next course of action.

Like Foggy, she stopped and stared, and Matt sighed, waving Foggy in her direction. "Explain," he said, then turned his attention back to his friend and Captain Rogers. 

The first priority they had was keeping Bucky safe.

"Stark's tech is everywhere," Rogers was saying. "We can't guarantee he didn't see us heading this way."

"Right," Matt agreed. "That's why your friend over there is watching the skies. Is he likely to be hostile again?"

Both men hesitated.

“He was in his armour. I think his tech identified my arm as weaponised in the bad way, and he tried to pin me down,” Bucky admitted. “By the time Steve got to him, to try and stop him…” He made a vague gesture to his side. 

“What he’s not saying is that they were kicking each other’s asses,” Sam put in from the window. “Maybe he tried to take Barnes down by surprise, but let me tell you Barnes doesn’t like surprises.”

“There wasn’t too much damage,” Bucky muttered. “I… mighta hit him with a lamp post.”

“Christ,” Matt groaned under his breath. “That’s not going to look good for our defence.” He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "My place isn't too far from here. There would be enough room for you to use it as a base. It's a little Spartan."

"As long as it's out of the way and you don't mind, I just want to get him somewhere safe."

Bucky snorted. He sounded exhausted. "I'm sitting right here."

Matt reached out and squeezed his left shoulder. He'd noticed that touching there always seemed to calm Bucky, as if having someone accept his metal arm, rather than recoil, was a comfort. "We got you, Bucky."

"Yeah," Bucky muttered, but Matt could hear the relief in his voice, undercutting the feigned irritation. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Matt turned his head. Foggy had taken Karen into his office and was giving a potted summary of their newest client. Even with the door closed, he could hear Karen's heartbeat picking up. No wonder. The Winter Soldier had a reputation, and Stark was famous - and infamous - for being one of the richest men in the country. They were just a three-person practice, barely a year into the business.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she whispered. "I mean, you saw the footage..."

"You didn't hear him," Foggy's voice was just as low. "He needs our help."

"He killed people, Foggy. How do we know his… friends won’t come after him?"

Under Matt's hand, Bucky's shoulder had tensed. Captain Rogers was just as rigid on his other side. It was strange, Matt thought. Foggy and Karen's voices were low enough that the average person wouldn't be able to hear, but here he was, flanked by a genetically-enhanced supersoldier and an equally-modified equivalent who could clearly hear as well as he could.

The only person he had ever been around with a similar skill was Stick.

"It's okay," Matt murmured, kneading Bucky's tight shoulder. "We’ll keep you covered.”

"She's right, though," Rogers observed. "You could all end up in danger."

Matt blinked, surprised, then tilted his head down towards Bucky. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

Bucky shivered with a faint laugh. "Your identity is your own damn business."

Matt shook his head with a rueful smile, then held out a hand towards Rogers. "I should introduce myself, Captain America. I'm Daredevil."

Rogers's sharp intake of breath confirmed his genuine surprise.

Sam started laughing. "You gotta be kidding me."

Rogers caught his hand, and there was strength in that grip. "Well," he said, and Matt could hear the smile in his voice, "can't say Buck doesn't know how to pick his friends."

Bucky laughed quietly. "Yeah. I said the same thing. You guys could go and jump of rooftops together."

"It's a match made in somewhere," Sam said, laughing. 

Steve snorted. "Like you can judge us, Sam."

Before their friend could reply, the door of Foggy's office opened. Matt turned towards them. He could feel Karen's trepidation, but also the rapid pulse that suggested she was eager and excited. She got like that when she was doing something she knew was dangerous, but was also right. 

"Well?" Matt said, even though he knew the answer before she spoke.

"We're going to need to get all the information that was leaked from SHIELD," she said at once. "We need to find out about the Winter Soldier program from their records." Her heart skipped a beat, and Matt didn't have to guess who she was looking at. "Um. Captain America... um, Captain Rogers, sir, do you have any access to information that would help?"

Rogers turned towards Sam, by the window. "If Murdock and I get Bucky somewhere safe, can you go back and fetch the hard copy files from the motel?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," Sam agreed. "They'll be keeping eyes out for you and Barnes. Me? Not so much."

"Files?" Foggy said. "Why didn't you mention them before?"

"Better we hear from our client's side first, right?" Matt guessed.

"Call it a warning of things to come," Rogers agreed. "Those files don't make easy reading. Sam'll bring them by. We'll get Bucky to Matt's place and keep him out of sight."

Bucky snorted under his breath. "Good word choice, jackass," he muttered. Rogers swatted him lightly across the back of his head. 

Matt's lips twitched. "It'll be better for you guys too," he said to Foggy and Karen. "They'll be looking for these two, so no one should bother you. You'll be okay on the research side here?"

"Yeah," Foggy said, nodding. "You keep him safe."

They got Bucky into one of Foggy's spare t-shirts to cover the worst of his wounds, and Karen called them a cab.

As weird days went, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Captain America and the Winter Soldier in the back of a New York City cab was pretty high up there. He could tell Rogers and Bucky were keeping their eyes on the streets, so he put his focus on the driver.

The man had recognised at least one of them, judging by the rapid beat of his heart. He wasn't speaking, but from the faint creak of his hands around the steering wheel, he was torn between terror and awe.

When he asked for a destination, Matt lied smoothly, giving a street several blocks from his place. Yeah, Bucky was in a bad way, but he had no doubt the driver would be straight on twitter as soon as they were out of the cab.

"Sorry," he said, as he led them into one of the side streets. "We'll have to walk from here."

"He made us?" Rogers guessed. He was on Bucky's left side, and from the muffling of Bucky's left arm, Rogers was supporting him. Bucky's steps were laboured, but he was being kept steady.

"Couldn't know if he would report on us," Matt confirmed. "He was terrified."

He heard the hitch in Rogers's breath, as if he had started to form a question then stopped. Instead, he just shifted Bucky's weight against his shoulder. "How you holding up, Buck?"

"Looking forward to not standing up."

Matt nodded, leading them onwards. For the sake of face, he swept his stick ahead of them. Too many casual pedestrians around otherwise.

It took them nearly twenty minutes to walk the distance, and almost the same again to get Bucky up the stairs to Matt's apartment. High-level was fine if you weren't injured, as Matt had often found himself. 

As soon as Matt closed the door behind them, Rogers asked, "Where do you want him?"

Matt hesitated. Couch was closer, but in case of visitors or intruders, it was better that he was out of sight. "Bedroom," he said, pointing towards the doorway. 

Bucky made a weak gesture with his hand. He was breathing hard.

Matt heard Steve take a breath and shift his weight. Bucky grunted aloud, and Matt felt the shift of the floorboards underfoot as Rogers took Bucky's full weight in his arms and Bucky's metal arm clattered, clutching at Rogers.

"Christ, Steve!" he gasped out. "I'm not a damned bride."

"Shut up, Buck," Rogers said, his voice only a little tight with effort.

Matt stepped aside, as Rogers strode across the room, his light footsteps reduced to heavy stamping. The bed creaked as Bucky was deposited on it, and a second creak followed. Rogers sitting down. 

Matt went to the kitchen, fetching a pitcher of water and two glasses, which he carried through to the room, setting them down on the cabinet beside the bed. "You need to replace your fluids," he said. "I'll get you some stronger painkillers."

"Sounds like you've done this before," Rogers observed.

On the bed, Bucky started laughing in faint, chuffing breaths. 

"Shut up, Barnes," Matt snorted, "or you don't get your painkillers."

"Yes, sir, patchwork man." Bucky's genuine warmth and amusement made Matt smile. 

He withdrew from the bedroom and headed for the bathroom, bypassing the weaker medications in the cabinet and going straight for the ones Claire provided when he'd had a knife in his gut. It wasn't like he used them often, but for a worst case scenario, they were useful, and a burn inflicted by Iron Man was pretty bad.

In the other room, Rogers and Bucky were talking quietly. He tried not to listen, but the acoustics in the apartment were too good, and he had to admit he was curious.

"What the hell have you been doing, Buck? I was looking everywhere for you."

Bucky fell into his habitual silence. He was both happy and uneasy, as if worried about upsetting his friend. "I know," he finally said. "I just...I destroyed so many things. I wanted to try and start making things right." He laughed harshly. "Like helping on a construction project can make up for killing someone."

"Buck..."

"It helped, y'know," Bucky whispered. "Rebuilding homes. Fixing things. Doing something for other people. Making things better." He took a painful breath. "Then I saw a gym. You remember our gym? The one where you tried to learn to box."

Rogers swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was shaking. "Yeah. I remember."

Bucky's voice was frail, wistful. "It's gone now. Our one. They put up condos. But it was like ours. Ring. Bags." He laughed again, faintly. "And wouldn't you know it? Stubborn little punk who doesn't know when to back down too."

Rogers laughed too, brief, soft, but genuine. "Seems like a decent kid."

Bucky's chuckle turned into a groan through clenched teeth. "Kid? He's our age."

"Give or take a few decades," Rogers said. The bed creaked as he rose, and Matt heard his footsteps approach the bathroom door. He rapped lightly. "Hey, you got those painkillers?"

Matt opened the door, tossing the pills towards Rogers, who plucked the bottle out of the air, the contents rattling. "They'll put him under," he warned. "I think they could take down a baby elephant."

Rogers rattled the bottle. "I'll give him two," he decided. "He needs to rest."

"You're not my mother, Rogers," Bucky grumbled from the bed. Matt heard the bed creak as he struggled to sit up, and the rattle of pills being shaken from the bottle.

"You did this often enough for me when... before." Rogers sat back down on the edge of the bed. Water sloshed from pitcher to glass, and Matt heard it clink against Bucky's metal hand. "Drink all of that, then we'll knock you out."

Bucky muttered something in Russian that had to be rude, but he gulped down the water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand, stubble on his chin rasping on his skin. "Gimme."

Another splash of water, less this time, enough to wash down a couple of pills, then the bed creaked as Bucky eased himself back down. His heart rate was slowing, no longer frantic, and from the way the bed was shifting, he was relaxing down against it.

"Jesus, Matt," he said, voice slurring. "What the hell were in th..."

His breathing and pulse were both sluggish but even, and the plates of his left arm slid back into the default resting position with a muffled series of click.

"Told you," Matt murmured to Rogers. "Baby elephant."

"Or Russian-honed supersoldier." Roger said softly. There was no mistaking the affection in his tone. The bed creaked as he leaned closer and Matt heard the whisper of Bucky's hair being brushed back from his brow. "We should let him rest."

Matt jerked his head towards the living room. "Plenty of space."

Rogers rose, and padded almost silently through to the other room. It was so rare for someone so big, with such muscle density, to move so lightly. Matt couldn't help studying him, drinking in the way he seemed to make the world fit around him, instead of barging right on through it. 

Unsurprisingly, Rogers did a circuit of the room, pausing at the windows for less than a second.

"It's secure," Matt murmured as he shut the bedroom door behind them, leaving Bucky to sleep. "Believe me, I've checked."

Rogers hesitated. 

Matt smiled crookedly. "Go ahead. Ask. I know you've been trying not to since you realised."

Rogers laughed then, self-consciously. "Yeah. I've seen some crazy things in my time, but you... I can't figure out how you do what you do."

Matt made his way over to the couch, and sat down. Without the stick for show, he knew he could pass for any guy in the street, unless people were paying attention to his eyes. "You must have an idea. I mean, like you said, you've seen some crazy things."

Rogers came closer, sitting down on the opposite couch. He didn't sit back, Matt noticed. Just on the edge, not enough for the springs to shift under him. Wary, still, on his guard. "I'd guess enhanced senses. You could hear your friends in the office, even with the door closed."

Matt grinned. "I wondered if you'd noticed."

"You said something about what they were talking about," Rogers said. "Not exactly subtle."

Matt nodded. "That's pretty much it. I was in an accident when I was a kid. Chemicals do weird things to the body."

Rogers snorted self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Tell me about it." He pushed himself back on the couch, releasing a quiet sigh. Not fully relaxed, but more at ease than he had been a moment before. "Thanks. For all of this."

Matt shrugged. "He's my friend."

"No," Rogers said quietly. "You don't know how much you've helped him. Last time I saw him, he didn't even remember who he was, let alone who I am. He needed someone to help him, and I couldn't find him. I'm glad you did."

Matt wondered if his blush was visible. It was one thing to be thanked for helping a friend. It was another thing entirely when it was Captain America pretty much slapping him on the back and telling him he'd done a good job. A memory of colourful childhood cartoons and comic books came back all in a rush.

"It's nothing, really," he said self-consciously. "Anyway, he found me. All I did was spar with him and buy him a few dinners."

"Still," Captain America said, grave and quiet. "Thank you."


	8. Chapter 8

It was turning into a very surreal day.

For a man who spent his nights running around the city in a bright red suit, that was saying a lot. 

Captain America - Steve, please call me Steve - was sitting on his couch. The Winter Soldier, one of Russia's most prized assassins, was asleep in his bedroom, passed out on painkillers. And there was every chance that Iron Man was hunting both of them.

It was also kind of hard to play it cool when a genuine superhero was sitting in front of him. 

Matt leaned back on the couch, crossing his right leg over his left. Then he uncrossed them, and sat back upright. He hardly had anyone around at the best of times, but this was a whole different class of visitor. How the hell were you meant to act around a national icon?

"I get the feeling saying 'calm down' wouldn't help," Captain Rogers said, and Matt could hear the wry smile in his voice. A note of weariness as well. No wonder. He was probably used to people acting like idiots around him.

"Sorry," Matt said sheepishly. "This is a weird day for me. It's just... I used to watch Captain America cartoons. Before..." He gestured vaguely to his face. "Never thought you would ever be in my apartment."

Steve laughed. It was a quiet sound for such a big man, barely more than a tight little chuff of air. He used to be small, Matt remembered. Everything Bucky had said slipped into place: small and sick and not at all the big man who was sitting there now. 

"Yeah," Steve murmured. "No one saw this coming." He took a deeper breath, blew it out. "I guess you need to know what happened."

"Apart from Bucky and Iron Man kicking each other's asses?"

The sofa creaked as Steve shifted his weight, then rose. "I'm guessing you heard about the... incidents in South Africa, Korea and Sokovia?"

"Crazy robot army?" Matt nodded. "We were just kind of glad it wasn't in New York for once."

Steve paced back and forth. He stayed close to the interior walls, away from the windows, and he barely made a sound. Finally he stopped, close to the kitchen. "Things have been... difficult since then."

"So it's true, then? That the robot was one of Stark's?" It had been speculated, but then, there had been killer robots before that were unleashed by Stark's enemies: his old business partner for one, some Russian scientist for another. 

"Mm." Steve leaned back against the counter of the kitchen. Matt could hear the fabric of his shirt move as he folded his arms over his chest. "Not deliberately, but he still did it. Thought he was saving the world."

Matt self-consciously averted his face. "Uh... yeah. People sometimes do pretty dumb things when they're trying to do what they think his right."

Another one of those small chuffs of tired amusement. "You don't need to tell me that." Matt heard the softness of flesh pressing against the counter as Steve pushed off from it and returned to the couch. "We have some new kids in the Avengers now. People with... powers, I guess you'd call it. It makes people nervous."

Matt could remember Foggy's reaction to his own skillset. "And angry, I guess? Abilities people don't understand, right?"

Steve nodded. "Tony..." He sighed as he sat back down. "He wanted to make up for the mess with Ultron. Offered to help what’s left of SHIELD find people like that. Keep them safe from hostilities." The sofa creaked as he sank back on it. "You know what they say about the road to hell."

"Paved with good intentions," Matt murmured. "He found Bucky, instead?"

The air stirred as Steve nodded. "Pretty much." His fingers whispered across his forehead, through his hair. "It was my fault. I didn't want them to know about Buck. At least not until I knew what was happening with him. Only Sam and Nat - Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow - really knew what was going on."

Matt frowned. "Wouldn't it have been easier to find him with Stark's help?"

Steve was silent for a long while. His heart was drumming and Matt could tell that what he was thinking about was distressing him. 

"Last time I saw Bucky," he finally said, "he had already shot me and was trying to beat me to death with his bare hands.” Matt could hear the waver in his voice. “I think he might have saved my life that day. I don't know. I was so far gone I woke up in a hospital three days later." He sighed again, low and tired. "I didn't know if I got through to him. I didn't know how he would react if he realised people were looking for him."

Matt nodded. "Better to look quietly, instead of all the horns and whistles."

"Yeah," Steve murmured. "Tony didn't even know he was Bucky. No one…” He paused, tense and still. “I wanted be sure. Didn’t want to be too hopeful. But Tony… he read the reports on SHIELD. Heard about the Winter Soldier. Saw a threat..." He leaned forward, and his fingertips rippled along his eyelashes. "Bucky's instinct was to fight and defend himself."

"Jesus," Matt said, shaking his head. "All this was a misunderstanding?"

"I hope so," Steve replied. His fingers brushed across his face again. He sounded exhausted. "I don't want to have to fight my friends, but if it comes down to them or him, I'd choose him every time."

Matt could hear the emotion in Steve's voice, and wished he could do or say something that would help. "It's not just you and Wilson now," he offered. "I don't know Stark or any of the others. I know Bucky. I know he's a good man and he's been in a hell of a bad place. He doesn't deserve to be punished for what was done to him."

The relief and gratitude washed off Steve in a wave. "I’m glad someone else thinks so.”

Matt shrugged. “I call it as I see it,” he said. “The fact I got to know him as Bucky after the whole… Winter Soldier thing? That’s a sign that he’s still himself.” He pressed his thumb to his lower lip, thinking. “He said he killed Stark’s parents. Is there evidence of that?”

Steve was silent for a moment. “It was speculation and implication,” he replied. “They didn’t tend to keep all the details of all of his missions. He was meant to be nothing more than their own urban legend. The records are shady at best.”

Matt nodded, rising from the couch and pacing across the room. “Okay. Do you know how the Starks died?”

“Car accident. They hit a patch of ice, the reports said.”

Matt nodded again, pacing a circle on the floor. “If Stark is gunning for him as a culpable suspect in a murder case, he would have to have evidence that their deaths were a murder. If it was deemed an accident, unless they can provide new evidence, you can’t charge someone with murder for it.”

Steve exhaled quietly. “To be honest, I think Tony was really just in his first line of defence response. It’s just that he’s… not had a great time of it, not since the… incident.”

Matt snorted. “Yeah. The incident. Makes it sound like nothing.”

“Yeah.” Steve blew out a noisy breath. 

Matt trailed his fingers along the back of the couch. “There’s no chance you can just talk to him? See if he’ll back down?”

The other couch creaked as Steve shifted. “He was making a noise about taking Bucky down and getting him locked up where he belonged. He didn’t like that I got in the way.”

“And you told him who Bucky was?”

Steve hesitated. “Not exactly. Nat was there. I think she would have explained after I got Bucky out of the way. I figured it was better for me to get him out of the line of fire and ask questions later.”

“And I’m the back-up in case he decides to go through the law?”

The other man nodded. “Let’s say Tony does try to go the legal route with all of this: if he saw the files, and he knew the Winter Soldier was implicated in his parents’ death, would he be able to have the case reopened and investigated as a murder instead?”

Matt grimaced. “It’s possible, especially if the Winter Soldier was used for assassinations. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. The accident verdict would work in our favour, though. If it was deemed an accident, it means the case was closed. It would take them a lot of work to get it opened again.” He turned back to Steve. “You have to remember this is going to be about a lot more than Stark’s parents.”

There was another one of those small, short breaths, as if - for a moment - Captain Rogers had forgotten he could breathe as deeply as he wanted. “I know,” he said, low. “I just… I need to build up to it. One thing at a time.” 

It had to be a hell of a thing, Matt thought. Waking up in the future was a big deal anyway, with a whole new world to figure out a little at a time, but then getting your long-dead best friend back, only to find out that he’d been turned into the very thing you fought against?

No wonder Steve sounded like he was wound up tight. 

The least Matt could do was give him five minutes of respite.

“Well,” he said, “until we get the files and sleeping beauty wakes up, there’s not much we can do just now.” He leaned on the back of the couch. “You know what he likes to eat. Want to help me throw together a meal?”

From the shift in the air, Steve had turned to look at him, and there was a wariness in his stance that spoke of confusion and surprise. “What?”

“You know Bucky better than I do,” Matt said, heading for the kitchen. “We never really talked about what he liked, when it came to food. He just ate whatever was put in front of him. You know what he likes.”

Steve was silent for a moment, then rose. “Liked,” he corrected. “His tastes might have changed by now.”

Matt tilted his head back towards the other man. “Some things don’t change. He’s living proof of that.” He went to the refrigerator and opened it up. A wave of aromas hit him. A selection of vegetables. A tray of meat, still in the wrapper. A dozen bottles of different sauces that he’d never got around to using. “Of course, it all depends on what we can do with all of this.”

He heard Steve approach him, and felt the breadth of the warm body less than a foot behind him. A hand touched his shoulder. “You know, I think I can come up with something. How do you like a good, old-fashioned stew?”

Matt stepped aside to give him access to the food. “Can’t say I’ve had many of them.”

Steve laughed quietly. “This’ll be an education for you. You got a big pan?”

Matt headed for one of the cupboards, pulling out the largest pan he had. “This enough?”

“It’ll do. How are you at chopping onions?”

Matt turned his face in Steve’s direction. “How fine do you need them?”

The scent in the air changed, and he heard the whisper of fine onion skin rustling as the onion arced through the air.

He caught it one-handed. “Testing me, Captain?”

To his surprise, Steve laughed. “You’re one up on Buck,” he said. “Ten damned years and he only caught it twice.” He joined Matt by the counter, setting down a pile of vegetables and the tray of meat. “How are at you at taking orders?”

“Awful,” Matt said cheerfully, reaching for one of the knives. “But I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Steve patted him on the shoulder. “I can see why you get along with him. Smartmouth.”

Matt had to hide a smile. “Yeah. He doesn’t have a type at all.”

Steve reached across him to take another of the knives. “Not at all.”


	9. Chapter 9

The stew was simmering in the pot, filling the apartment with a scent that reminded Matt of a time he thought he had forgotten, when his grandmother was still around. He closed his eyes, breathing it in.

It brought to mind hands as soft and wrinkled as old leather, and a voice that could be mild and sharp in turn. He could hardly remember her face, but the smell brought back a little of her, warm and familiar. 

Maybe it was an Irish thing. Steve Rogers was famously Irish American, at least among the Irish American community. Everyone remembered how one of their own had done good. 

A clatter of dishes in the sink and rush of water brought him back to reality.

"You don't need to do that," he said.

Steve was already filling the sink with hot water. "I don't mind."

"I have a dishwasher," Matt pointed out.

"For a couple of knives and chopping boards?" He could hear the amusement in Steve's voice. "It's not like it's hard work."

Matt couldn't help smiling. "I'm not going to win this, am I?"

"Nope."

Matt turned back to the stove, and lifted the lid to stir the pot. "How long should it take?"

"At least an hour is best, but the longer the better usually," Steve replied. He gave one of those short, cut-off laughs. "I can't remember the last time I made it." He was motionless, the water still rushing over his hands. "Before the war, I think."

It was still jarring for Matt to hear such a young voice speak of a war that had been before his father's time. 

Matt set the lid back down. "Must have been tough times back then."

Behind him, he felt the air shift as the other man tensed. Not something he liked to talk about. Like Bucky that way. Like any old soldier, really. None of them liked to talk about the things they'd seen and lived through.

He changed his tack. "The Great Depression, I mean," he said. "Did you even have meat?"

Steve's breath escaped in a surprised gust. Matt could hear the way he turned. Opening himself to the questions. Okay. Avoid the war. 

"If you knew where to go and who to ask," Steve said as he started washing the knives, adding the tart scent of lemon to the air. "You didn't want to know where it came from, believe me, but you could get something that you could believe was meat once in a while."

Matt leaned against the counter, feigning shock. "Are you telling me that Captain America bought meat on the black market?" 

Steve snorted, and it was a much lighter sound than before. "Hey, I'm only human." He set the knives to dry beside the sink. "Anyway, it was Bucky who usually got it for us."

Matt approached him and picked up a dishcloth to dry the knives. "Yeah?"

"Mm." Steve turned off the faucet. "People liked him. You always got more if people liked you."

Matt hesitated, then asked, "And they didn't like you?"

Steve snorted again. "Don't let my sparkling personality fool you, Murdock. I wasn't the sweet-natured angel I am now in those days."

"Sweet-natured angel..." Matt couldn't help shaking his head in disbelief. "Jesus. Have you made been to confession lately? Lies that big'll take at least four Hail Marys."

And just like that, Steve was laughing. It wasn't a big sound, but it shook his whole body, and he slapped Matt on the shoulder with enough force to make Matt stumble a step. "You're going to fit right in," he said. "I can tell."

Matt couldn't keep the grin from his face. "That sounds ominous."

"Mm." Steve returned to the stove and checked the stew. He was silent for a moment, then turned his head. "If you don't mind me asking..."

"Shoot."

Steve turned back to him as Matt slid the knives back into the block. "Daredevil. How did that start?"

Matt's fingertips lingered on the handle of the knife. "Have you ever listened to the city at night?"

Fabric shifted, heavier fabric, which suggested pants. Steve was resting his hip against the counter. Flesh met the polished metal of the countertop, and fingertips beat an erratic tattoo. "I think I see where you're going with this."

Matt nodded. "The city got big. More often than not, the people at the bottom are the ones who are swallowed whole."

He felt the air rippled as Steve nodded. "Fight for the people who can't fight for themselves. And that goes for the lawyer work too?"

Matt shrugged, turning towards him. "Well, I do look good in a suit."

It earned a chuckle from Steve. "Business suit by day, red leather by night."

Matt winced. "You make me sound like a dominatrix." He hesitated, wondering if a man who had spent seventy years in the ice would even know what that was. "Uh..."

He could hear the hitch in Steve's breath, as if he wanted to say something and was trying to decide whether to say it or not. Finally, he stepped forward and patted Matt on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I have the internet. I'm pretty sure the people you spank don't enjoy it."

Matt wondered if he was going as red as his suit, which only made Steve laugh again.

A phone buzzed, and Steve held up a hand. 

“Hold on a second.” There were a couple of beeps. “Hey, Sam.”

Matt turned away politely to give him privacy, but it was hard not to listen, and apparently, Steve could tell. “No, no, not interrupting. We knocked Bucky out, and Mr Murdock has been telling me about his exciting nights in red leather.”

Matt groaned. 

Sam’s laughter was audible down the phone. “You’re an ass, Rogers.”

Steve switched the phone to speaker. “You get the files?”

The other man’s voice had a tinny note. “Yeah, about that… I may have company.”

“Hey, Rogers.” The voice was female, silky. Matt tilted his head. The tone sounded flirtatious, but there was a brittleness beneath it. 

Steve exhaled. He was pressing his palm to the counter again, the tension in his body carrying across to Matt. “Hey, Nat. Wondered if you’d find us.”

“You managed to get off my grid,” she replied and laughed, but it wasn’t convincing. “Sam won’t tell me where you got to, and Stark has no idea. Looks like you took my lessons to heart.” There was a brief silence. “Where are you?”

“Safe.”

“Steve…”

Matt heard the whisper of a hand passing over a face. Silently, he stepped across the kitchen and laid a hand on Steve’s right shoulder, offering support where it felt like it might be needed. The broad shoulder rose and fell under his hand, a shiver running the length of Steve’s body. 

“We’re safe,” Steve said. “Bucky is with me. He… we just need some time to figure out what our next move is.”

The woman on the other end of the line said nothing for a moment. “You know what I told you. You know the risk he could pose.”

Steve nodded. His shoulders were sagging. He may have been a super soldier, but Matt could tell that everything was wearing him down. Every man had a limit, even genetically-enhanced superheroes. “I know.” He sounded graver, sad. “But I need to speak to him. I need to see him, just him.”

“You know I’m going to find you, sooner or later.”

“Yeah.” Steve switched the phone back from speaker. He put it up to his left ear, and Matt knew to take a hint. He drew back, turned his attention to the stew and forced himself not to listen to what was being said.

A moment later, he heard the beep of the call being terminated, and the quiet click as it was laid down on the counter. Matt kept stirring the stew. Steve was breathing unsteadily, clearly upset by what had been said, but the last thing Matt wanted to do was make it worse by poking the wound. 

“I’m guessing you’ve heard of Black Widow.”

Matt nodded. “Friend of yours, isn’t she?”

Steve walked around the counter and back towards the couch. “Yeah.” 

Matt heard the way he practically collapsed onto it, the springs creaking beneath him. He paused long enough to put the lid back on the pan, then fetched a couple of bottles of beer from the refrigerator. He popped them open, then headed back across the room and offered one of them to Steve.

“Sounds like you could use this.”

There was a quiet, weary chuff of amusement. “Nice idea.” The bottle was taken from his hand, leaving onto the chilly condensation. “Doesn’t work like it used to, but right now, I’ll take it.”

Matt rubbed his cool fingertips against his thumb. “She’s looking for you?” he asked, sitting down on the arm of the other couch. “Black Widow?”

He could hear Steve turning the cool bottle between his palms, the glass clinging to and releasing warm skin. “Not me. Buck.”

Matt took a mouthful of beer, considering it. “She sees him as a threat?”

Steve sank back in the couch. “She thinks he could be.”

A conflict of interest then.

“You think she’ll find you if you stay here?”

The back of the couch shifted as Steve tilted his head back against it. “Nat’s good at what she does. Wouldn’t put it past her to be here in the next couple of hours.”

Matt lowered his bottle to rest on the arm of the chair, running his thumb around the mouth of the bottle. “You know she’s your friend, but you don’t want her here. Why?” Steve’s head rose, but Matt went on quickly. “This isn’t just about you wanting time with Bucky, is it? There’s something else. Something she knows.”

Steve sat up, and his bottle clinked quietly as it was set down on the coffee table. He was trying to find words again. It was like Bucky: deliberating over what to say and how to say it, and whether to even bother.

“Steve,” Matt said quietly, “if I’m going to help him, I need to know everything, good or bad.”

Steve didn’t move, barely even breathed. “He doesn’t know,” he finally said, his voice low.

“Bucky? Doesn’t know what?”

Steve’s fingers brushed across his own brow, ruffling his hair. The sound seemed unbearably loud in the silence. “It’s only a theory,” he said. From the flicker in his heartbeat, his doubt and uncertainty was palpable. “Nat has… experience of that world. She’s pretty convinced and wants to check, but I don’t… I can’t believe that, not the way they used him. They didn’t need to do that.”

“Do what?” Matt prompted. Whatever it was, Steve was halfway to believing it, even if he didn’t want to.

The other man folded his hands together, squeezing his fingers so tightly Matt could hear the joints and bones shifting. “Turn him into a sleeper.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor spoilers for Ant-Man. Not anything especially big.

The beer fizzed up in the bottle, the cap bouncing away across the counter.

Matt was taking what he felt was a well-earned drink.

Steve's statement was still hanging in the air, and since he'd spoken, Matt could feel the tension return, as if Steve expected to be shown the door with his potential sleeper-cell of a friend. Steve was motionless on the couch, so rigid that the couch wasn't even moving beneath him. 

"You knew the whole time?" Matt finally said.

Steve's breath left him in a gust. "Not at first," he admitted. "Nat's history is... complicated. She heard from people who would never have talked to me. It rang some alarm bells, and she let me know as soon as she could."

"How likely is it?"

Steve was silent, and shifted his weight, setting the couch creaking beneath him again. Finally, after several bitten-off attempts, he said, "They had him for a long time. You heard what he knows, but there has to be more that he doesn't. They could have done anything. Everything." He exhaled again, quietly. "Nat knows their keywords. Things that might trigger him."

Matt set his bottle down with a quiet clink. "And she wants to use them, to confirm whether he's still active?"

He heard the rustle of Steve nodding.

It was an understandable reaction, to run with his friend, to hide him from the person who could confirm he was still dangerous. 

"I think he knows." Steve's voice broke the silence again. "Bucky." His breathing was shallow again. "When we found him, Sam and I, he had his arm locked in an industrial vice. We think he was trying to smash it." There was the slightest tremor in his words. "So he wouldn't hurt anyone, he said."

"But he let you help him," Matt murmured. "He must have realised he was safe with you."

Steve's laugh was a short, bitter sound. "He ran first," he said. "We got him out of it, told him we were going to watch his back, and he ran. I guess he thought he would still see me as his mission." His hand whispered over his face again. "I think he expects to revert back, keyword or not." 

Matt dragged his fingertips up the neck of his bottle, the condensation and glass cool against his skin. He knew they needed to confirm Bucky's status. Steve knew it too, but Matt couldn't blame him for wanting to delay it as long as possible. He'd barely got his friend back. He didn't want to lose him again. 

Bucky wasn't the only one who believed he might revert. 

"It has to be his choice," Matt said quietly. "He needs to know and make the decision."

Steve nodded again. "He'll want to know."

And that, Matt knew, was why Steve had tried to keep him safe: from the law and from the truth of what he might still be capable of. 

"There's no hurry," Matt murmured. "We can get him fed and cleaned up first." 

He moved to the stove and lifted the lid on the stew, stirring it. The steam coiled up around him, catching on the currents and diluting through the air in the apartment. He could catch the scent of different herbs and spices, and the dozen ingredients they had thrown into the pot.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one.

His bed didn't make a sound. It was too carefully put together for that. But he heard feet touch the floor through the bedroom door. No shoes, only socks on the feet. Steve must have taken Bucky's boots off when he was in the bathroom. 

Steve was on his feet too. "Buck. You should be resting."

Matt turned his head. He heard the scrape of Bucky's metal arm against the doorframe, bracing himself, and Steve crossing the floor with those quick light steps. And underlying those sounds, he could hear the low rumble of Bucky's stomach.

"Hungry." Bucky sounded like he was still half-asleep, his voice a dry-mouthed growl.

Steve released a sigh that was both exasperated and amused. "You don't change, do you?" He must have slipped his arm under Bucky's, because they came back towards the couch with matching steps, Bucky's dragging. Steve set Bucky down on the couch, and Matt was already moving to fetch him a glass of water.

Bucky was silent, breathing slow and even, but his arm was slowly whirring and shifting. Matt recognised the sound. He was flexing his false hand.

"Something wrong?" Matt asked, rounding the end of the breakfast bar.

Bucky said nothing at first. It wasn't the same silence as it had been in the early days, but it was also different from his hesitations and pauses as they'd grown to know each other. This was a side of Bucky he hadn't heard before.

"He needs coffee," Steve said. From the sound of it, he was slightly higher than Bucky, sitting on the arm of the couch. "He's not great when he's just woken up."

"T'hell with you, Rogers," Bucky grumbled.

"Save me a seat," Steve retorted, but there was a brittleness to the man's voice that hadn't been there before. “We could’ve brought the food to you, y’know.”

Bucky breathed in slowly through his nose and released it. His mouth was closed, Matt noticed. Contained. Matt could remember all too clearly how silent Bucky was when he’d been badly beaten. If he had shaken off the sedative effects of the drugs already, then the pain was probably returning too, but he wasn’t about to tell them that.

Matt approached them and held out the glass.

“You want to see to the food, Cap?” he asked. “I can’t tell if it’s ready by looking.”

Bucky snorted, which came as a relief to Matt, then took the glass. “Y‘wanna be a comedian?”

“I have my moments,” Matt replied, as Steve got up. “Plates are in the cupboard on the right of the stove, if it’s done.”

“Guess you don’t have much choice about knowing where everything is?” Steve said over his shoulder, as he walked back to the kitchen. “You got coffee?”

“By the kettle,” Matt replied. He sat down on the arm of the couch opposite Bucky. “You get much rest?”

“Mm.” Bucky was gulping down the water. “Some.” He laughed shortly, not hard enough to jar his ribs. “Fancy bed. Too soft.”

Matt smiled crookedly. “Next time, you get the couch.”

Another quiet breath of a tired laugh. “I already got you in enough trouble.”

“I get myself in trouble,” Matt corrected. 

Bucky’s hair whispered on his shoulders as he shook his head. “What do you call this mess?”

Matt tilted his head. From the sound of it, Steve was picking a fight with his hob to heat the kettle, muttering profanities under his breath as the matches snapped or refused to catch. “I’d say this is introducing me to interesting new people.”

“Interesting.” Bucky snorted again. “You got that right.”

A buzz from Matt’s pocket made him jolt in surprise. “Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”

“One sec,” Matt said, pulling out his cell and answering it. “Yeah?”

“Uh…” Foggy’s voice was faltering, and lower than usual. “So how many superheroes do you know?”

Matt frowned. “Why? What’s up?”

“Some guy just showed up in a steampunk leotard and diving helmet and said the bird-guy sent him.”

“Bird-guy?” Matt echoed.

“Falcon,” Steve called over from the kitchen. “Sam.”

“Oh.” He turned towards Steve. “Foggy says Sam sent someone over.”

“Matt,” Foggy hissed urgently down the line. “He _grew_.”

“Wait, what?” Matt rose from the couch and went to the window. “What do you mean he grew?”

Foggy laughed, shrilly. He sounded even more on edge than he had been when they were all in the office. “I mean he wasn’t there, and then suddenly poof! Guy in a leotard-thing! If Karen wasn’t here, I’d think I was going nuts, I swear to God.”

Matt frowned. “Hold on,” he said, then covered the receiver. “Either of you guys know about someone in a fancy unitard and helmet who can shrink or get bigger at will?”

The kettle clattered down on the hob. “Shit.”

“Someone you know?”

Steve’s voice was grim. “I’ve heard of him. Last I heard, he was heading back West. What does he want?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t know. He said Sam sent him.”

“Sam? Why?”

Matt uncovered the receiver and switched the phone to speaker. “Foggy? You there?”

“Yeah. Matt, seriously, he’s flirting with Karen. What do I do?”

Matt walked back to the table, setting the phone down. “Can you find out why Falcon sent him?”

“That?” Foggy huffed. “He brought the files. Said the other guy couldn’t shake a tail or something.” 

“A tail?” Bucky’s voice was suddenly sharp. Matt didn’t need to turn to feel the wariness rolling off Bucky in waves. Bucky’s hand squealed on the surface of the glass and the couch was shifting under him as he tensed. Fight or flight response. “Someone’s after him?”

“Someone’s after all of us,” Steve reminded him. “Foggy, could you get…” Matt heard the way the air hissed between his teeth. “Can you put Ant-Man on the line, please?”

“Sure, Cap! One second!”

Matt turned to Steve. “Ant-Man? Really?”

“Shut up, Daredevil,” Bucky said, but the tired smile was audible. “How’s that coffee coming?”

“Two minutes,” Steve replied.

“Hey, Cap!”

All of them turned their attention back to the phone.

“You’re on speaker,” Steve said. “We need to keep this short. Did Falcon give you any other message?”

Ant-Man - if that was really what he was calling himself - sounded around the same age as Matt himself, but he still had the breathless excitement in his voice of speaking to Captain America. “He said you know who’s watching him already. He thought you might want these files in the right hands sooner rather than later.”

Steve released a quiet sigh. “He’s not wrong.”

“These are the right people? You don’t want me to bring them to you?”

“Those are the right people,” Steve confirmed. He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for coming back. It’s a big help.”

Matt could practically see the grin on Ant-Man’s face as he said, “No problem, Cap. Always happy to help the Avengers.”

The call cut off and Matt reached down to pick up his phone again.

“Don’t say it,” Steve said. 

“What?” Matt asked.

“Him,” Steve said, and from the motion of the air, he was gesturing emphatically at Bucky. “Don’t even say it.”

Bucky was shaking, and it took Matt a second to realise he was laughing. Almost silently, it was true, but faint chuckles were escaping him. “That still happens?”

Steve made an impatient sound. “Buck…”

Matt had to smile. “Groupies?” he guessed.

“He had dancing girls. And he wore _tights_ ,” Bucky said, sounding far too amused.

To Matt’s surprise, Steve laughed too, ruefully. “So you remember that too?”

“And your theme song,” Bucky said.

“And you’re still a jerk,” Steve said as he made the coffee. He sounded like he was smiling, but Matt could hear the sadness underlying his words. 

If this was the Bucky Steve knew and remembered, how much worse would it be if Steve’s friend was right about him?


	11. Chapter 11

The stew was surprisingly good for something thrown together in fifteen minutes.

Judging by Bucky's silence as he wolfed it down and gulped down a mug of coffee, he agreed. He didn't speak until he knocked the bowl against Steve's leg. The other man was still sitting on the arm of the couch beside him. "S'there more of that?"

Steve's smile was audible in his voice. "You think I didn't remember what a pig you could be?" Matt heard the softness of flesh against the food-warmed china. "I swear you ate more than anyone I ever met."

Bucky snorted as Steve headed for the kitchen. "Don't believe a word he says," he told Matt. "Biggest liar in Brooklyn."

Matt grinned at him. "I've seen you eat before. You went through a steak like it was oatmeal."

"Training," Bucky retorted. "Makes a man hungry."

The couch shifted as he cautiously leaned forward. A beerbottle scraped closer to the edge of the table. Matt heard the way it was wobbling and was on his feet and leaning across the table to catch it before it fell. 

He heard some of the beer splatter on the floor and the sharp, indrawn breath from Steve.

"Shit," Bucky hissed through his teeth. His heart rate was spiking and his whole body had gone rigid, his arm still half-outstretched. The barely-stifled pain made his voice catch. "Sorry. I'll clean that up."

Matt held out the bottle to him. "Don't worry about it." He caught the tang of copper on the air and drew the bottle back, setting it on the middle of the table. "You tore your wound. You're bleeding."

Behind him, Steve swore, and he heard the faint, almost resigned sigh from Bucky. "I'll get the first aid kit," Steve said, the brittle note back in his voice. "Buck, you stay put or I'm going to sit on you to keep you there."

Bucky's breath was hissing between his teeth as he leaned against the arm of the couch. "Yes sir, Captain America, sir."

Steve's muttered "punk" was so low even Matt barely heard it. Bucky did, though, and some of the tightness in his breathing eased out.

Matt circled around the coffee table, crouching down to mop up the splash of beer. It wasn't much, but he had a feeling it would bother Bucky if it was still there, a reminder that he wasn't even able to pick up a beer bottle right now.

"Show off," Bucky murmured. His body was still tense, and Matt could hear the click of metal sliding on metal as he clenched and unclenched his left hand.

Matt raised his head. "Yeah, I'm a master mopper."

Bucky snorted, then winced again. "You impressed Steve with your bottle-catching."

"Hey," Steve interrupted indignantly, as he emerged from the bathroom.

"What? You were staring like you did at that knife-thrower at Coney Island."

Matt shifted aside to let Steve kneel down in front of Bucky, helping the other man out of the shirt he was wearing. "Just luck."

Bucky sniffed the air. "I smell bullshit."

Both Steve and Matt snorted, and Matt heard the shift in Steve's body as the other man turned to glance at him. "Enhanced senses again?"

"Mm." Matt sat down on the edge of the coffee table. He heard the tape peel away from Bucky's skin, and the scent of blood and ozone grew stronger. Even from an arm's length away, he could feel the heat still pulsing out from the burn. "We need to cool that down. It's got to hurt like hell."

Bucky laughed tightly. "You're not wrong."

"Ice?" Steve suggested, and Matt knew he wasn't the only one to notice the way that Bucky tensed up. No wonder. "No. Bad idea. Right." Steve was rubbing his hand on Bucky's shoulder, skimming from flesh to metal in slow circles. The touch was helping, even if Bucky's whole body was taut with pain. "How about the bathtub? Some cool water?"

"Yeah."

Matt rose. "Here," he said, offering his hand. "We'll both get you through."

Bucky's flesh hand was cold against his. "Yeah." His pulse was racing, and Matt could feel the tremors running through him. 

It took all three of them to get Bucky through to the bathroom. The after-effects of the drugs were making him unsteady on his feet, and loss of blood and pain wasn't helping. 

"Want me to help?" Matt asked, as Steve helped Bucky sit on the toilet seat lid. "I promise I won't peek."

The hissed breath told him Bucky wanted to laugh, but was hurting too much to risk it. 

"I'll take care of it from here," Steve murmured, as he started undressing his friend. "Can you make up something warm for him to drink that won’t get him jittery. Warm milk or something. He's lost a lot of blood."

Matt nodded. "Of course." He set down the first aid kit by the sink. "Get him back on the bed when you're done. I'll leave out some shorts. Don’t cover the wound. Let the air dry it out." Steve was nodding in agreement. "And Bucky?"

"Mm."

"You're on bed rest for the rest of the day, understood?"

"Not my Captain," Bucky's voice was a frail breath.

"No, but my apartment, my rules," Matt replied.

He left them to go back to the kitchen. Even from the other room, he could hear the rush of the water, and Steve’s murmuring voice. There was a sharp, stifled cry of pain. Bucky’s metal hand was rattling on the edge of the tub. The acoustics were too good. Bucky’s choked, gasping sobs were echoing, muffled as they were against Steve’s shoulder or chest. 

Matt picked up the beer bottle from the table. It was still cool.

He wanted to help. Christ, he wanted to do anything that wasn’t hearing his friend sobbing and in pain. It had to be the first time Bucky had really let anyone near him when he was so vulnerable, especially after everything that had happened. The first time he’d had someone who knew him before and still loved him.

The sobbing wasn’t just about the pain from the wound. 

It was something much more personal.

Matt retreated to the sink and washed Bucky’s blood off his hands, then turned his attention to the stove. He switched off the ring beneath the pan of stew, fetching a smaller pan to warm up some milk, and though he tried to ignore the sounds in the bathroom, in his home, he knew every sound and couldn’t ignore the ones that weren’t normally there.

They needed time, Bucky and Steve, and he didn’t need to be there.

The pan clattered on the hob and he headed for the pile of laundry waiting to be pressed. His shirt was clinging to him, sticky with Bucky’s blood, so he shed it and pulled a fresh t-shirt and sweater over his head. 

“I’m going to the store to get some milk,” he called out, loud enough to be heard. There was a vague sound of acknowledgement, and that was good enough. 

Matt snatched his wallet, cell, and stick, then retreated back out into the familiar chaos of the city.


	12. Chapter 12

The city had turned to a roar around him.

Matt took a slow breath, drawing his barriers back in place. The last thing he needed was to be overwhelmed. All the same, he couldn't help scanning the crowds as he emerged from his building. Hiding a fugitive was a good reason to be paranoid.

All it would take was the taxi driver tweeting about his passengers, and Stark would know the last place Captain America had been seen. The driver might even have remembered they were in the cab with a blind guy, which narrowed the field down even further. 

It would be better to get to the store and back as soon as possible, but he also knew that Bucky needed more time than a trip across the street to buy milk.

There was another store, a bigger one, two blocks over. As far as he could recall, he had never been in it without Foggy. That was a better option. He could use the blind-person-in-new-environment card as an excuse to take his time, off the street and out of Bucky and Steve's way for a while. 

His stick skimmed across the sidewalk in front of him.

As usual, people gave him a wide berth. 

People got nervous around him on the street, and if he was being honest with himself, he sometimes took a guilty pleasure in clipping the ankles of people who were being unrepentant assholes. It was impressive how quickly some people went from asshole to awkward apologies when they spun around to yell at someone who turned out to be disabled. 

It took him less than five minutes to reach the store, and he picked up a handbasket in one hand. Below the tinny sound of the in-store music, he heard one of the store clerks asking another in a whisper if they were meant to help him. 

He could feel the chill of the air from the refrigerated section of the store, and set out in that direction, making broad sweeps with his cane. The milk was all in one large refrigerator, and he was relieved he could bypass the rest of the dairy aisle. Somewhere in the middle of the cheeses, something was rotting, and not in the expensive French way.

Behind him, he could hear the nervously whispering clerks, and finally, one of them approached him, clearing her throat.

“Sir, if you need any help with anything…” Her voice was high and young. She had to be in her early teens, but she was small for her age, skinny. The kind of person who was working out of necessity rather than choice. Her soap and laundry detergent were cheap brands, the kinds that were too abrasive on his senses.

The poor girl was had been sent over by her boss, the more senior clerk. He was still hovering nearby and Matt could hear the way her heart was racing. Her anxiety was palpable. The last thing he wanted to do was give her a reason to be upset.

He turned his most winning smile on her. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I’ve managed to find the refrigerated section, but it’s a lot bigger than I expected. Can you lead me to the milk please?”

The rest of his shopping trip was done with an escort, and to draw it out for as long as possible, he asked for her recommendations in the snacks aisle. 

“I’m so sorry,” she finally said, as she led him in the direction of a vacant checkout. “I’ve taken up so much of your time.”

He waved away her concerns with a smile. “You made grocery shopping a lot more interactive than usual,” he said. “It’s been a while since anyone gave me some good recommendations for snacks.” 

She giggled. “You came to the right person. If there’s one thing I know, it’s snacks.”

He held out the basket and she took it, setting it down at the checkout. “Am I allowed to tip the staff?” he asked, as she started scanning through his purchases. The slight hesitation between beeps registered her surprise.

“I-I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t- we never-”

He reached down and picked up one of the packs of cookies she had recommended. He’d picked up two packs for that reason, and he knew for a fact her boss was still close enough by to see him give them to her. “How about you keep one of these? For your great service?”

From the warmth emanating from her, she was blushing. “You don’t gotta-”

“I want to,” he said gently, holding out the pack to her. “C’mon.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a murmur, “It’ll piss off your boss.”

She snorted and nodded, her hair whispering against her shoulders. “’Kay.” She accepted the pack, and he heard the rustle of the packaging as she tucked it under the counter. “You want paper or plastic?”

By the time he left the store - screwing up his pin and credit cards deliberately added another five minutes onto the trip - he’d been out of the apartment for close to half an hour. It wasn’t a lot, but it was probably long enough and Bucky needed his warm milk.

He was halfway down the second block when a voice caught his attention from across the street. “I have visual.”

He’d heard that voice before, coming through his phone when Steve’s friends had called him. Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow.

He paused where he was and set down his groceries between his feet, then withdrew his cell. He made a show of it, as if he was receiving a call. He thumbed the controls against his ear, dialling his apartment’s number. A landline wasn’t a necessity, but he’d kept one in case of emergencies. Occasions like being a refuge for fugitives from the Avengers.

Steve didn’t pick up, which wasn’t a surprise, but it went to voicemail.

“Yeah,” Matt said, smiling like he meant it, “that’d be great. I know you didn’t want me to bring company, but I’ve got someone who would love to see you.”

He heard the light footsteps that were approaching him with too much deliberation. The Black Widow had a formidable reputation, and now, he could tell why: like Steve, she moved through the crowd like water through a maze. 

She had just crossed the street and was going to be on him in seconds.

“I’ll see if I can arrange for her to come by another day. Yeah.” He disconnected the call, and put all his focus on the woman coming at him. She reminded him of a predator, all grace and poise, but with the claws and danger hidden beneath the surface. 

As she got closer, he could hear the faint, barely-audible mechanical buzz of machinery in her hand. Oh, very neat. A tracker.

He leaned down to pick up his bags, and just as she came alongside him, her hand moving to pin the tracker on him, he straightened up and turned around, crashing straight into her. She was good. Damn, she was good. She caught his arms as if to steady him, and when she stepped back, the tracker clung to his sleeve, barely the size of an ant.

“Hey there,” she said, all softer, apologetic tones. She sounded like a different person. A Georgia accent this time. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you.”

He smiled at her. “My fault,” he said, setting his bags down again, and brushing himself down. He deliberately frowned as his fingers brushed the tracker and he flicked it off. “Please tell me I didn’t go out in a dirty sweater.”

She laughed, and it was almost convincing, but her body had tensed. “Just a bug,” she said, and he wanted to congratulate her on a stellar pun.

“You’d be amazed how often I have to ask.” He inclined his head. “I’ll get out of your way.” 

“No problem.” She moved aside as he picked up his bags again and started walking.

He was meant to go straight across the next crossing, but he had a feeling that she wasn’t about to give up so easily. Instead, he turned left. It was the right decision. He was barely around the corner when he heard her speaking again.

“He managed to ditch the tracker.” She was walking now, light steps, behind him. There was at least twenty feet between them, and she was keeping it even, meandering between the other pedestrians. “I’m going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.” 

Matt grinned. 

Maybe she was an Avenger, but he knew Hell’s Kitchen like the back of his hand. He’d been running the rooftops and alleys for months, and even without his sensory advantage, he could have found a dozen places that would hide Battlin' Jack’s son, for old time’s sake. 

He took a moment to get his bearings, then nodded. There were a mess of alleys coming up on the next block over, some of them with very convenient fire escapes. He wove a little deeper into the crowd, shifting the weight of his grocery bag in his left hand.

Ahead of him, he could hear a large group of people in a store. The doors opened and he walked a little faster, crossing the doorway before a the group poured out, blocking up the pavement and blocking Romanoff’s line of sight.

He darted into the next alleyway with a cursory check to make sure there was no one there to see him. It was deserted, and his cane echoed off the dumpster as it fell out of sight, and he scrambled up onto the fire escape. He stowed his groceries two levels up and kept going, swinging over onto the roof.

He remained there, breathing slowly, and heard Romanoff run into the alley. She muttered something that had to be swearing in Russian, but didn’t immediately leave.

“Lost him,” she said. “An alley on…” He frowned as she broke off, then winced as he heard the rattle of his cane being pulled out from behind a dumpster. She didn’t seem surprised. “I’ll get back to you.”

She walked slowly across the alley. From the way she was turning on the spot, she was looking up, searching above her. 

There was a clatter as she climbed up onto a trash can, then jumped. The fire escape rattled, the ladder swinging down, and Matt swore under his breath. If she’d figured out his escape route, then she had definitely figured out he wasn’t as helpless as she’d assumed.

He took in the surroundings. The wind funnelled between the buildings, bouncing back from all sides. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave him a picture of just how far he would have to jump to get off the roof.

He was running at full-speed when Romanoff scrambled onto the roof.

“Murdock!”

He didn’t break stride, and when his foot hit the edge of the roof, he pushed off as hard and fast as he could. The wind ripped at his face, and he landed in a hard roll, scudding across the felted roof of the next building.

She didn’t try and follow him. She was standing on the other roof, and he couldn’t help himself. He lifted his hand and saluted, two fingers to his brow. To his surprise, across the roar of the city, he heard her laugh.


	13. Chapter 13

Matt knew he was being overly-cautious, but with superheroes hunting each other and former Russian agents stalking him through the streets, it felt better to take a long route back to his apartment, and when he got there, he headed for the rooftop entrance.

As far as he could tell, he couldn’t hear anything in the air that shouldn’t have been there. 

He uncovered the disused run-off pipe and pulled out the key for the door. Ever since Foggy had busted in and found him bleeding on the floor, they’d made sure to have spare keys for both doors to the apartment in case of emergencies. It definitely stopped the landlord yelling at them for broken locks.

He swept his surroundings again before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

Last he’d checked, Black Widow was climbing down the fire escape of the building where they’d met. She didn’t seem annoyed that her prey had escaped, but she was hard to get a read on, especially when he was bolting away from her as fast as he could.

She was excellent at stealth, that much was obvious. She had focus and awareness of her surroundings. Even her body seemed completely under her control. Her heart rate had only spiked once, when he jumped from the roof, and as soon as he landed, it was if she regulated it back to normal.

Like Bucky.

Matt could recall Bucky’s combat skills all too well. If Natasha Romanoff had been trained by a similar group of people, he was very glad that he had chosen to jump off a roof rather than get in a fight with her. 

He could hear Steve’s voice, a low murmur, as he made his way down the staircase into the apartment. It was only manners to tread a little harder, let them know they weren’t on their own anymore. Not like they really needed it, he realised too late. If they were on-guard half as much as he was, they would have heard the key in the lock.

The apartment still smelled of blood and stew, but there was a fresher scent overlaying both now. Black tea, slightly overdone. Three sugars. A good warm back up, since the warm milk was never going to happen now.

“Matt?” Bucky sounded calmer than he had, but his voice was still unsteady.

Matt approached the doorway of the bedroom. “Hey.”

Bucky was back on the bed. He was cooler than he had been, though even from across the room, Matt could feel the ripple of the heat from his uncovered wound. Leaving it open to the air would help, but it flared against his senses like a candle flame through smoked glass. Not right, and definitely not good.

Steve was sitting halfway down the bed. His heartbeat was steady, and he almost seemed calm, but the tension had returned to his body, leaving him almost rigid when he turned to look around at Matt.

Bucky’s metal hand clinked against the mug he was holding, then the mug clattered on the bedside table. It was almost empty from the sound of it. “You okay?”

Matt tried to smile. It wasn’t the time to get them worried, not when they needed Bucky to get some rest and heal up. “If this is about my message, I was worrying about nothing.”

“Message?” Bucky moved, as if to sit up, and Matt heard the press of flesh to flesh as Steve gently but firmly shoved him back against the headboard. 

“I don’t know about any message, but Nat’s been in touch again.” Steve ran his finger over the screen of his phone. “She said to thank you.”

Matt groaned inwardly. “Ah. Yeah.”

“I’m guessing that’s what happened to the milk?” Steve hazarded.

“Yeah, I had to ditch it,” Matt admitted with a grimace. “She was tailing me. I dumped it on a fire escape and managed to shake her off.”

The tension in the room eased at once, almost as if they’d expected him to come back with Romanoff in tow. Or at least shadowed by her.

“Were the cookies yours too?” Bucky sounded torn between amusement and exhaustion.

Matt blinked. “Wait, how did you know I got cookies?”

“Nat.” Steve said. His tone was abrupt, but something about his stance suggested he was trying not to grin. “She sent a picture. Those cookies went to a good home.”

Matt couldn’t help laughing. “Let me get this straight: she’s an Avenger and ex-KGB agent who almost managed to tag me with a tracker and who I barely managed to shake off and she’s sending pictures to gloat about the fact she stole my milk and cookies?”

“Ate,” Bucky corrected. “Ate your cookies.”

Steve gave one of his quiet laughs. “She’s Nat. If she’s not keeping you off-balance, it’s a slow day for her.” He hesitated, rising from the bed. “You’re okay, though?”

Matt nodded. “More of a duck-and-run than I’d usually get during the day, but yeah. She tried to play the clumsy tourist to get up close to me. Her Southern Belle is pretty good.” He hesitated, then ruefully added, “I think I blew my cover when I jumped off the roof.”

There was a muted thump as the back of Bucky’s head knocked against the wall. “Jumped. Off the roof.” His hair rustled against the wall as he turned his head towards Steve. “I’m starting to regret introducing you guys.”

Matt and Steve both snorted at the same time.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Matt pointed out. “She tried to plant a tracker on me, and when that didn’t work, she was following me. Most people don’t look up. She did.”

“Well, when you know people who can fly, you get used to the possibility,” Steve said. He sounded like he was almost smiling. He sat back down on the edge of the bed. “You’re sure you managed to drop her?”

“As far as I could tell,” Matt confirmed. “I had to double-back on my tracks a few times to make sure she didn’t follow me, but I couldn’t hear her anywhere nearby.”

“You don’t sound very sure,” Bucky murmured. He sounded tired, his heart rate slower and breathing deeper. From the way the bed was settling, he was sinking down.

“Would you have been able to follow me after I jumped off a roof?”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah.”

“Point made,” Matt murmured. He cleared his throat quietly, and Steve’s head turned just a little, his breath coming in a short huff as he did. Matt jerked his head back towards the other room, and he heard the bed shift again as Steve got up.

“You need to lie down if you’re gonna sleep again, Buck.” Steve was pulling at the covers. “You’ll get a crick in your neck if you lie against the wall like that.”

Bucky grumbled drowsily, but the bed shifted under him, sheets catching and tugging. He must have turned onto his good side, because the heat of his wound seemed to increase, a dull, aching flare against Matt’s senses. It didn’t smell quite so bad now, but the flavour of ozone and blood would linger.

Matt withdrew to the other room and headed for the kitchen. Running around on the rooftops could make a man pretty thirsty. He was halfway through his second glass of water when Steve emerged from the room and lightly closed the door.

“Painkillers?” Matt inquired.

“Senses tell you that?”

Matt smiled crookedly. “The fact he called you mom when you tucked him up.” He heard the chuff of tired laughter. “His vitals were slower. I figured he probably needed it.”

“Yeah.” Steve sank down on the couch. “He needed to rest. He burns through the drugs in no time, but it’ll give him a break.” Combat-roughened fingertips ran across clean-shaven skin. “I dosed him before Nat got in touch. We’ll need to move him as soon as he’s on his feet again. If Nat managed to get an ID on you, it won’t take her long to find this place.”

Matt set down the glass. It clinked on the counter. “It’s not in my name.”

“You think that matters?”

The rim of the glass was pressing against Matt’s fingertips. “She’s that good?”

“She’s better.”

“Damn.” He abandoned the glass and came around to sit on the other couch. “Do you have somewhere to hole up?”

“Potentially.” There was a wary edge to Steve’s voice now. “Look, I don’t want you to take this personally, not after the help you’ve given us, but-”

“It’s safer if I don’t know,” Matt finished. “Yeah. That way, I can’t give anything away by accident or whatever.”

Steve sighed with relief. “Yeah. Pretty much. I’ll get Sam to pick up burner phones. We’ll stay in contact. Just… we need to keep Bucky somewhere quiet and out of the way. Let him be himself for as long as possible.”

As long as possible had an ominous ring to it. Despite all his power and abilities, Captain America knew he was living on borrowed time.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

Steve was silent for a long time, but Matt could tell he was thinking. It was there in the tiny catches in his breath when he had an idea, the shift in his weight against the couch as he considered it, the frustrated grind of his teeth as he put it aside. 

There were so many variables, so many angles to take on board, even for someone who was a legendary soldier and strategist.

“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “Not without compromising you. We need you safe and clean. You’re just our lawyer. You don’t need to get yourself into any more trouble than you’re already in.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch. “Maybe some pants for Bucky, if you have some that would fit him?”

Matt smiled crookedly. For all that he was a fighter too, Bucky was more solid than he was. Probably had to be, to manage to weight of his arm. “I have some elasticated ones that should fit. Foggy calls them my sexy mom yoga pants.”

This time, when Steve laughed, there was relief and genuine warmth there. “Tell Bucky that when you give him them.”

“You want him to pop his wound again?” Matt said, grinning.

Steve leaned back on the couch, the heels of his shoes scuffing the floor as he stretched out his legs. “Knowing Buck, he’ll find some way to do that himself, yoga-pants be damned.”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, then paused, frowning. He held up a hand, and Steve was enough of a soldier to know not to ask what was happening. He went even stiller than before, not even moving a muscle, and Matt knew it was so he wouldn’t be a distraction.

Something had caught on the periphery of Matt’s senses, something enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

It was a sound, beyond the rumble of the city and the hum of electricity in the walls. Quiet now, a sound like many others, lost in a tapestry of them, but enough to make him notice. He tried to shut out everything else, tried to find it.

Not outside the building. 

In the hallway on the bottom floor. 

He tilted his head, then hissed through his teeth.

The shoes were different, sneakers instead of kitten heels now, but the gait was the same, the lioness on the Savannah, the pace of a predator who had her eyes on her prey. Even half a dozen levels away, he could recognise the way she walked, and she was heading for the elevator.

It rumbled to life, descending, and he whipped his head back to Steve.

“She’s here.”


End file.
